Title: The Robe
Author: Lloyd C. Douglas
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Language: English
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Because she was only fifteen and busy with her growing up,
Lucia's periods of reflection were brief and infrequent; but this morning she
felt weighted with responsibility.

Last night her mother, who rarely talked to her about anything more
perplexing than the advantages of clean hands and a pure heart, had privately
discussed the possible outcome of Father's reckless remarks yesterday in the
Senate; and Lucia, flattered by this confidence, had declared maturely that
Prince Gaius wasn't in a position to do anything about it.

But after she had gone to bed, Lucia began to fret. Gaius might indeed
overlook her father's heated comments about the extravagances and
mismanagement of his government, if he had had no previous occasion for
grievance against the Gallio family. There was, however, another grievance
that no one knew about except herself—and Diana. They would all have to
be careful now or they might get into serious trouble.

The birds had awakened her early. She was not yet used to their
flutterings and twitterings, for they had returned much sooner than usual,
Spring having arrived and unpacked before February's lease was up. Lucia
roused to a consciousness of the fret that she had taken to bed with her. It
was still there, like a toothache.

Dressing quietly so as not to disturb Tertia, who was soundly sleeping in
the alcove—and would be alarmed when she roused to find her mistress's
couch vacant—Lucia slipped her sandals softly over the exquisitely
wrought mosaics that led from her bedchamber and through her parlor into the
long corridor and down the wide stairway to the spacious hall and out into
the vast peristyle where she paused, shielding her eyes against the sun.

For the past year or more, Lucia had been acutely conscious of her
increasing height and rapid development into womanhood; but here on this
expanse of tessellated tiling she always felt very insignificant. Everything
in this immense peristyle dwarfed her; the tall marble columns that supported
the vaulted roofs, the stately statues standing in their silent dignity on
the close-clipped lawn, the high silver spray of the fountain. No matter how
old she became, she would be ever a child here.

Nor did it make her feel any more mature when, proceeding along the
patterned pavement, she passed Servius whose face had been as bronzed and
deep-lined when Lucia was a mere toddler. Acknowledging with twinkling
fingers and a smile the old slave's grave salute, as he brought the shaft of
his spear to his wrinkled forehead, she moved on to the vine-covered pergola
at the far end of the rectangle.

There, with her folded arms resting on the marble balustrade that
overlooked the terraced gardens, the arbors, the tiled pool, and commanded a
breath-taking view of the city and the river, Lucia tried to decide whether
to tell Marcellus. He would be terrifically angry, of course, and if he did
anything about it at all he might make matters worse; but—somebody in
the family must be informed where we stood in the opinion of Gaius before any
more risks were taken. It was unlikely, thought Lucia, that she would have an
opportunity to talk alone with her brother until later in the day; for
Marcellus had been out—probably all night—at the Military
Tribunes' Banquet, and wouldn't be up before noon; but she must resolve at
once upon a course of action. She wished now that she had told Marcellus last
summer, when it had happened.

The soft whisper of sandal-straps made her turn about. Decimus the butler
was approaching, followed by the Macedonian twins bearing silver trays aloft
on their outspread palms. Would his mistress, inquired Decimus with a deep
bow, desire her breakfast served here?

'Why not?' said Lucia, absently.

Decimus barked at the twins and they made haste to prepare the table while
Lucia watched their graceful movements with amused curiosity, as if observing
the antics of a pair of playful terriers. Pretty things, they were; a little
older than she, though not so tall; agile and shapely, and as nearly alike as
two peas. It was the first time that Lucia had seen them in action, for they
had been purchased only a week ago. Apparently Decimus, who had been training
them, thought they were ready now for active duty. It would be interesting to
see how they performed, for Father said they had been brought up in a home of
refinement and were probably having their first experience of serving a
table. Without risking an inquiring glance at the young woman who stood
watching them, they proceeded swiftly but quietly with their task. They were
both very white, observed Lucia, doubtless from confinement in some
prisonship.

One of Father's hobbies, and his chief extravagance, was the possession of
valuable slaves. The Gallio family did not own very many, for Father
considered it a vulgar, dangerous, and ruinously expensive vanity to have
swarms of them about with little to do but eat, sulk, and conspire. He
selected his slaves with the same discriminating care that he exercised when
purchasing beautiful statuary and other art objects. He had no interest in
public sales. Upon the return of a military expedition from some civilized
country, the commanding officers would notify a few of their well-to-do
acquaintances that a limited number of high-grade captives were available;
and Father would go down, the day before the sale, and look them over, learn
their history, sound them out, and if he found anything he wanted to add to
his household staff he would bid. He never told anyone in the family how much
he had paid for their slaves, but it was generally felt that he had never
practiced economy in acquiring such merchandise.

Most of the people they knew were in a constant dither about their slaves;
buying and selling and exchanging. It wasn't often that Father disposed of
one; and when, rarely, he had done so, it was because the slave had
mistreated another over whom he had some small authority. They had lost an
excellent cook that way, about a year ago. Minna had grown crusty and cruel
toward the kitchen crew, scolding them loudly and knocking them about. She
had been warned a few times. Then, one day, Minna had slapped Tertia. Lucia
wondered, briefly, where Minna was now. She certainly did know how to bake
honey cakes.

You had to say this for Father: he was a good judge of people. Of course,
slaves weren't people, exactly; but some of them were almost people. There
was Demetrius, for example, who was at this moment marching through the
colonnade with long, measured strides. Father had bought Demetrius six years
ago and presented him to Marcellus on his seventeenth birthday. What a
wonderful day that was, with all their good friends assembled in the Forum to
see Marcellus—clean-shaven for the first time in his life—step
forward to receive his white toga. Cornelius Capito and Father had made
speeches, and then they had put the white toga on Marcellus. Lucia had been
so proud and happy that her heart had pounded and her throat had hurt, though
she was only nine then, and couldn't know much about the ceremony except that
Marcellus was expected to act like a man now—though sometimes he forgot
to, when Demetrius wasn't about.

Lucia pursed her full lips and grinned as she thought of their
relationship; Demetrius, two years older than Marcellus, always so seriously
respectful, never relaxing for an instant from his position as a slave;
Marcellus, stern and dignified, but occasionally forgetting to be the master
and slipping absurdly into the role of intimate friend. Very funny, it was
sometimes. Lucia loved to watch them together at such moments. Of course she
had about the same relation to Tertia; but that seemed different.

Demetrius had come from Corinth, where his father—a wealthy
shipowner—had taken a too conspicuous part in defensive politics.
Everything had happened at once in Demetrius' family. His father had been
executed, his two elder brothers had been given to the new Legate of Achaea,
his patrician mother had committed suicide; and Demetrius—tall,
handsome, athletic—had been brought to Rome under heavy guard, for he
was not only valuable but violent.

Lucia remembered when, a week before Marcellus' coming of age, she had
heard Father telling Mother about his purchase of the Corinthian slave, only
an hour earlier. She had been much impressed—and a little frightened,
too.

'He will require careful handling for a while,' Father was saying. 'He has
seen some rough treatment. His keeper told me I had better sleep with a
dagger under my pillow until the Corinthian cooled down. It seems he had
badly beaten up one of his guards. Ordinarily, of course, they would have
dealt with him briefly and decisively; but they were under orders to deliver
him uninjured. They were quite relieved to get him off their hands.'

'But is this not dangerous?' Mother had inquired anxiously. 'What might he
not do to our son?'

'That,' Father had replied, 'will be up to Marcellus. He will have to win
the fellow's loyalty. And he can do it, I think. All that Demetrius needs is
an assurance of fair play. He will not expect to be petted. He is a slave,
and he knows it—and hates it; but he will respond to decent
discipline.' And then Father had gone on to say that after he had paid the
money and signed the documents, he had himself led Demetrius out of the
narrow cell; and, when they were in the open plaza, had unlocked his chains;
very carefully, too, for his wrists were raw and bleeding. 'Then I walked on
ahead of him,' Father had continued, 'without turning to see whether he was
following me. Aulus had driven me down and was waiting in the chariot at the
Appian Gate, a few yards away. I had planned to bring the Corinthian back
with me. But, as we neared the chariot, I decided to give him instructions
about how to reach our villa on foot.'

'Alone?' Mother had exclaimed. 'Was that not very risky?'

'Yes,' Father had agreed, 'but not quite so risky as to have brought him
here as a shackled prisoner. He was free to run away. I wanted him to be in a
position to decide whether he would rather take a chance with us than gamble
on some other fate. I could see that my gestures of confidence had surprised
and mellowed him a little. He said—in beautiful Greek, for he had been
well educated, "What shall I do, sir, when I arrive at your villa?" I told
him to inquire for Marcipor, who would advise him. He nodded, and stood
fumbling with the rusty chains that I had loosed from his hands. "Throw them
away," I said. Then I mounted the chariot, and drove home.'

'I wonder if you will ever see him again,' Mother had said; and, in answer
to her question, Marcipor appeared in the doorway.

'A young Corinthian has arrived, Master,' said Marcipor, a Corinthian
himself. 'He says he belongs to us.'

'That is true,' Father said, pleased with the news. 'I bought him this
morning. He will attend my son, though Marcellus is to know nothing of this
for the present. Feed him well. And provide him with a bath and clean
clothing. He has been imprisoned for a long time.'

'The Greek has already bathed, Master,' replied Marcipor.

'Quite right,' approved Father. 'That was thoughtful of you.'

'I had not yet thought of it,' admitted Marcipor. 'I was in the sunken
garden, supervising the building of the new rose arbor, when this Greek
appeared. Having told me his name, and that he belonged here, he caught sight
of the pool—'

'You mean'—expostulated Mother—'that he dared to use our
pool?'

'I am sorry,' Marcipor replied. 'It happened so quickly I was unable to
thwart it. The Greek ran swiftly, tossing aside his garments, and dived in. I
regret the incident. The pool will be drained immediately, and thoroughly
cleansed.'

'Very good, Marcipor,' said Father. 'And do not rebuke him; though he
should be advised not to do that again.' And Father had laughed, after
Marcipor had left the room. Mother said, 'The fellow should have known better
than that.' 'Doubtless he did,' Father had replied. 'But I cannot blame him.
He must have been immensely dirty. The sight of that much water probably
drove him temporarily insane.'

One could be sure, reflected Lucia, that Marcipor hadn't been too hard on
poor Demetrius; for, from that day, he had treated him as if he were his own
son. Indeed, the attachment was so close that slaves more recently acquired
often asked if Marcipor and Demetrius were not somehow related.

* * * * *

Demetrius had reappeared from the house now, and was advancing over the
tiled pavement on his way to the pergola. Lucia wondered what errand was
bringing him. Presently he was standing before her, waiting for a signal to
speak.

'Yes, Demetrius?' she drawled.

'The Tribune,' he announced, with dignity, 'presents his good wishes for
his sister's health and happiness, and requests that he be permitted to join
her at breakfast.'

Lucia brightened momentarily; then sobered, and replied, 'Inform your
master that his sister will be much pleased—and tell him,' she added,
in a tone somewhat less formal, 'that breakfast will be served here in the
pergola.'

After Demetrius had bowed deeply and was turning to go, Lucia sauntered
past him and proceeded along the pavement for several yards. He followed her
at a discreet distance. When they were out of earshot, she paused and
confronted him.

'How does he happen to be up so early?' she asked, in a tone that was
neither perpendicular nor oblique, but frankly horizontal. 'Didn't he go to
the banquet?'

'The Tribune attended the banquet,' replied Demetrius, respectfully. 'It
is of that, perhaps, that he is impatient to speak.'

'Now don't tell me that he got into some sort of mess, Demetrius.' She
tried to invade his eyes, but the bridge was up.

'If so,' he replied, prudently, 'the Tribune may wish to report it without
the assistance of his slave. Shall I go now?'

'You were there, of course, attending my brother,' pursued Lucia. And when
Demetrius bowed an affirmative, she asked, 'Was Prince Gaius there?'
Demetrius bowed again, and she went on, uncertainly, 'Did you—was
he—had you an opportunity to notice whether the Prince was in good
humor?'

'Very,' replied Demetrius—'until he went to sleep.'

'Drunk?' Lucia wrinkled her nose.

'It is possible,' deliberated Demetrius, 'but it is not for me to
say.'

'Did the Prince seem friendly—toward my brother?' persisted
Lucia.

'No more than usual.' Demetrius shifted his weight and glanced toward the
house.

Lucia sighed significantly, shook her black curls, and pouted.

'You can be very trying sometimes, Demetrius.'

'I know,' he admitted ruefully. 'May I go now? My master—'

'By all means!' snapped Lucia. 'And swiftly!' She turned and marched back
with clipped steps to the pergola. Something had gone wrong last night, or
Demetrius wouldn't have taken that frozen attitude.

Decimus, whose instinct advised him that his young mistress was
displeased, retreated to a safe distance. The twins, who had now finished
laying the table, were standing side by side awaiting orders. Lucia advanced
on them.

'What are you called?' she demanded, her tone still laced with
annoyance.

'I am Helen,' squeaked one of them, nervously. 'My sister is Nesta.'

'Can't she talk?'

'Please—she is frightened.'

Their long-lashed eyes widened with apprehension as Lucia drew closer, but
they did not flinch. Cupping her hands softly under their round chins, she
drew up their faces, smiled a little, and said, 'Don't be afraid. I won't
bite you.' Then—as if caressing a doll—she toyed with the tight
little curls that had escaped from Helen's cap. Turning to Nesta, she untied
and painstakingly retied her broad sash. Both girls' eyes were swimming.
Nesta stopped a big tear with the back of her hand.

'Now, now,' soothed Lucia, 'don't cry. No one is going to hurt you here.'
She impulsively abandoned the lullaby, drew herself erect, and declared
proudly: 'You belong to Senator Marcus Lucan Gallio! He paid a great price
for you—because you are valuable; and—because you are
valuable—you will not be mistreated.... Decimus'—she called, over
her shoulder—'see that these pretty children have new tunics; white
ones—with coral trimmings.' She picked up their hands, one by one, and
examined them critically. 'Clean,' she remarked, half aloud—'and
beautiful, too. That is good.' Facing Decimus, she said: 'You may go now.
Take the twins. Have them bring the food. My brother will have breakfast with
me here. You need not come back.'

Lucia had never liked Decimus very well; not that there was any particular
ground for complaint, for he was a perfect servant; almost too deferential, a
chilling deference that lacked only a little of being sulkiness. It had been
Lucia's observation that imported slaves were more comfortable to live with
than the natives. Decimus had been born in Rome and had been in their family
for almost as long as Lucia could remember. He had a responsible position:
attended to all the purchasing of supplies for their tables, personally
interviewed the merchants, visited the markets, met the foreign caravans that
brought spices and other exotics from afar; a very competent person indeed,
who minded his own business, kept his own counsel, and carried himself with
dignity. But he was a stranger.

One never could feel toward Decimus as one did toward good old Marcipor
who was always so gentle—and trustworthy too. Marcipor had managed the
business affairs of the family for so long that he probably knew more about
their estate than Father did.

Decimus bowed gravely now, as Lucia dismissed him, and started toward the
house, his stiff back registering disapproval of this episode that had
flouted the discipline he believed in and firmly exercised. The Macedonians,
their small even teeth flashing an ecstatic smile, scampered away, hand in
hand, without waiting for formal permission. Lucia stopped them in their
tracks with a stern command.

'Come back here!' she called severely. They obeyed with spiritless feet
and stood dejectedly before her. 'Take it easy,' drawled Lucia. 'You
shouldn't romp when you're on duty. Decimus does not like it.'

They looked up shyly from under their long lashes, and Lucia's lips curled
into a sympathetic grin that relighted their eyes.

'You may go now,' she said, abruptly resuming a tone of command. Lounging
onto the long marble seat beside the table, she watched the twins as they
marched a few paces behind Decimus, their spines straight and stiff as
arrows, accenting each determined step with jerks of their heads from side to
side, in quite too faithful imitation of the crusty butler. Lucia chuckled.
'The little rascals,' she muttered. 'They deserve to be spanked for that.'
Then she suddenly sobered and sat studiously frowning at the rhythmic flexion
of her sandaled toes. Marcellus would be here in a moment. How much—if
anything—should she tell her adored brother about her unpleasant
experience with Gaius? But first, of course, she must discover what dreadful
thing had happened last night at the Tribunes' Banquet.

* * * * *

'Good morning, sweet child!' Marcellus tipped back his sister's head,
noisily kissed her between the eyes, and tousled her hair, while Bambo, his
big black sheep-dog, snuggled his grinning muzzle under her arm and wagged
amiably.

'Down! Both of you!' commanded Lucia. 'You're uncommonly bright this
morning, Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio. I thought you were going to a party
at the Club.'

'Ah—my infant sister—but what a party!' Marcellus gingerly
touched his finely moulded, close-cropped, curly head in several ailing
areas, and winced. 'You may well be glad that you are not—and can never
be—a Tribune. It was indeed a long, stormy night.'

'A wet one, at any rate, to judge from your puffy eyes. Tell me about
it—or as much as you can remember.' Lucia scooped Bambo off the marble
lectus with her foot, and her brother eased himself onto the seat beside her.
He laughed, reminiscently, painfully.

'I fear I disgraced the family. Only the dear gods know what may come of
it. His Highness was too far gone to understand, but someone will be sure to
tell him before the day is over.'

Lucia leaned forward anxiously, laid a hand on his knee, and searched his
cloudy eyes.

'Gaius?' she asked, in a frightened whisper. 'What happened,
Marcellus?'

'A poem,' he muttered, 'an ode; a long, tiresome, incredibly stupid ode,
wrought for the occasion by old Senator Tuscus, who, having reached that
ripeness of senescence where Time and Eternity are mistaken for each
other—'

'Sounds as if you'd arrived there, too,' broke in Lucia. 'Can't you speed
it up a little?'

'Don't hurry me, impatient youth,' sighed Marcellus. 'I am very frail. As
I was saying, this interminable ode, conceived by the ancient Tuscus to
improve his rating, was read by his son Antonius, also in need of royal
favor; a grandiloquent eulogy to our glorious Prince.'

'He must have loved the flattery,' observed Lucia, 'and of course you all
applauded it. You and Tullus, especially.'

'I was just coming to that,' said Marcellus, thickly. 'For hours there had
been a succession of rich foods and many beverages; also a plentitude of
metal music interspersed with Greek choruses—pretty good—and an
exhibition of magic—pretty bad; and some perfunctory speeches, of great
length and thickness. A wrestling-match, too, I believe. The night was far
advanced. Long before Antonius rose, my sister, if any man among us had been
free to consult his own desire, we would all have stretched out on our
comfortable couches and slept. The gallant Tullus, of whose good health you
are ever unaccountably solicitous, sat across from me, frankly asleep like a
little child.'

'And then you had the ode,' encouraged Lucia, crisply.

'Yes—we then had the ode. And as Antonius droned on—and
on—he seemed to recede farther and farther; his features became dimmer
and dimmer; and the measured noise he was making sounded fainter and fainter,
as my tortured eyes grew hotter and heavier—'

'Marcellus!' shouted Lucia. 'In the name of every immortal god! Get on
with it!'

'Be calm, impetuous child. I do not think rapidly today. Never again shall
I be anything but tiresome. That ode did something to me, I fear.
Well—after it had been inching along for leagues and decades, I
suddenly roused, pulled myself together, and gazed about upon the
distinguished company. Almost everyone had peacefully passed away, except a
few at the high table whose frozen smiles were held with clenched teeth; and
Antonius' insufferable young brother, Quintus, who was purple with anger. I
can't stomach that arrogant pup and he knows I despise him.'

'Gaius!' barked Lucia, in her brother's face, so savagely that Bambo
growled. 'I want to know what you did to offend Gaius!'

Marcellus laughed whimperingly, for it hurt; then burst into hysterical
guffaws.

'If the Glorious One had been merely asleep, quietly, decently, with his
fat chins on his bosom—as were his devoted subjects—your
unfortunate brother might have borne it. But our Prince had allowed his head
to tip far back. His mouth—by no means a thing of beauty, at
best—was open. The tongue protruded unprettily and the bulbous nose
twitched at each resounding inhalation. Our banquet-hall was deathly quiet,
but for Antonius and Gaius, who shared the floor.'

'Revolting!' muttered Lucia.

'A feeble word, my sister. You should give more heed to your diction.
Well—at that fateful moment Antonius had reached the climax of his
father's ode with an apostrophe to our Prince that must have caused a storm
on Mount Parnassus. Gaius was a Fountain of Knowledge! The eyes of Gaius
glowed with Divine Light! When the lips of Gaius moved, Wisdom flowed and
Justice smiled!... Precious child,' went on Marcellus, taking her hand, 'I
felt my tragic mishap coming on, not unlike an unbeatable sneeze. I suddenly
burst out laughing! No—I do not mean that I chuckled furtively into my
hands: I threw back my head and roared! Howled! Long, lusty yells of insane
laughter!' Reliving the experience, Marcellus went off again into an abandon
of undisciplined mirth. 'Believe me—I woke everybody up—but
Gaius.'

'Marcellus!'

Suddenly sobered by the tone of alarm in his sister's voice, he looked
into her pale, unsmiling face.

'What is it, Lucia?' he demanded. 'Are you ill?'

'I'm—afraid!' she whispered, weakly.

He put his arm about her and she pressed her forehead against his
shoulder.

'There, there!' he murmured. 'We've nothing to fear, Lucia. I was foolish
to have upset you. I thought you would be amused. Gaius will be angry, of
course, when he learns of it; but he will not venture to punish the son of
Marcus Lucan Gallio.'

'But—you see—' stammered Lucia, 'it was only yesterday that
Father openly criticized him in the Senate. Had you not heard?'

'Of course; but the Pater's strong enough to take care of himself,'
declared Marcellus, almost too confidently to be convincing. There was a
considerable pause before his sister spoke. He felt her body trembling.

'If it were just that one thing,' she said, slowly, 'perhaps it might be
overlooked. But—now you have offended him. And he was already angry at
me.'

'You!' Marcellus took her by the shoulders and stared into her worried
eyes. 'And why should Gaius be angry at you?'

'Do you remember, last summer, when Diana and her mother and I were guests
at the Palace on Capri—and Gaius came to visit the Emperor?'

'Well? Go on!' demanded Marcellus. 'What of it? What did he say? What did
he do?'

'You have given the reason,' said Lucia, dejectedly. 'I was afraid of the
tongue-tearing—and eye-gouging. Had my brother been a puny, timid man,
I might have told him at once. But my brother is strong and brave—and
reckless. Now that I have told him, he will kill Gaius; and my brother, whom
I so dearly love, will be put to death, and my father, too, I suppose. And my
mother will be banished or imprisoned, and—'

'What did Mother think about this?' broke in Marcellus.

'I did not tell her.'

'Why not? You should have done so—instantly!'

'Then she would have told Father. That would have been as dangerous as
telling my brother.'

'You should have told the Emperor!' spluttered Marcellus. 'Tiberius is no
monument to virtue, but he would have done something about that! He's not so
very fond of Gaius.'

'Don't be foolish! That half-crazy old man? He would probably have gone
into one of his towering tantrums, and scolded Gaius in the presence of
everybody; and then he would have cooled off and forgotten all about it. But
Gaius wouldn't have forgotten! No—I decided to ignore it. Nobody
knows—but Diana.'

'Diana! If you thought you had such a dangerous secret, why should you
tell that romping infant Diana?'

'Because she was afraid of him, too, and understood my reasons for not
wanting to be left alone with him. But Diana is not a baby, Marcellus. She is
nearly sixteen. And—if you pardon my saying so—I think you should
stop mussing her hair, and tickling her under the chin, when she comes here
to visit me—as if she were five, and you a hundred.'

'Sorry! It hadn't occurred to me that she would resent my playful
caresses. I never thought of her except as a child—like yourself.'

'Well—it's time you realized that Diana is a young woman. If she
resents your playful caresses, it is not because they are caresses but
because they are playful.' Lucia hesitated; then continued softly, her eyes
intent on her brother's gloomy face. 'She might even like your
caresses—if they meant anything. I think it hurts her, Marcellus, when
you call her "Sweetheart."'

'I had not realized that Diana was so sensitive,' mumbled Marcellus. 'She
is certainly stormy enough when anything displeases her. She was audacious
enough to demand that her name be changed.'

'She hated to be called Asinia, Marcellus,' said Lucia, loyally. 'Diana is
prettier, don't you think?'

'Perhaps,' shrugged Marcellus. 'Name of a silly goddess. The name of the
Asinius stock is noble; means something!'

'Don't be tiresome, Marcellus!' snapped Lucia. 'What I am saying is: Diana
would probably enjoy having you call her "Sweetheart"—if—'

Marcellus, who had been restlessly panthering about, drew up to inspect
his sister with sudden interest.

'Are you trying to imply that this youngster thinks she is fond of
me?'

'Of course! And I think you're pretty dumb, not to have noticed it! Come
and sit down—and compose yourself. Our breakfast is on the way.'

Marcellus glanced casually in the direction of the house; then stared
frowningly; then rubbed his eyes with his fists, and stared again. Lucia's
lips puckered into a reluctant grin.

'In truth, my sister,' he groaned, 'I am in much worse condition than I
had supposed.'

'You're all right, Tribune,' she drawled. 'There really are two of
them.'

'Thanks! I am relieved. Are they as bright as they are beautiful?' he
asked, as the twins neared.

'It is too early to tell. This is their first day on duty. Don't frighten
them, Marcellus. They're already scared half out of their wits. They have
never worked before... No, no, Bambo! Come here!'

Rosy with embarrassment, the Macedonians began unburdening their silver
trays, fussily pretending they were not under observation.

'Don't!' whispered Lucia. She rose and walked to the balustrade, her
brother sauntering after her. They turned their faces toward the city. 'What
did Tullus think of what you did?' she asked, irrelevantly.

'Tell me'—Marcellus ignored her query—'is there anything
peculiar about these slaves that makes you so extraordinarily
considerate?'

Lucia shook her head, without looking up—and sighed.

'I was just thinking,' she said, at length, 'how I might feel if I were in
their place.' Her troubled eyes lifted to meet his look of inquiry. 'It is
not impossible, Marcellus, that I may soon find myself in some such
predicament.... You wouldn't like that. Would you?'

'Nonsense!' he growled, out of the corner of his mouth. 'You're making too
great a disaster of this! Nothing's going to happen. I'll see to that.'

'How?' demanded Lucia. 'How are you going to see to it?'

'Well'—temporized Marcellus—'what do you think I should
do—short of going to that ugly reptile with an apology?'

Lucia brightened a little and laid her hand on his arm.

'Do that!' she pleaded. 'Today! Make peace with him, Marcellus! Tell him
you were drunk. You were; weren't you?'

'I'd rather be flogged—in the market-place!'

'Yes—I know. And perhaps you will be. Gaius is dangerous!'

'Ah—what could he do? Tiberius would not permit his half-witted
stepson to punish a member of the Gallio family. It's common knowledge that
the old man despises him.'

'Yes—but Tiberius consented to his regency because Julia demanded
it. And Julia still has to be reckoned with. If it came to a decision whether
that worn-out old man should stand up for the Gallio family—against
Gaius—with his shrewish wife screaming in his ears, I doubt that he
would trouble himself. Julia would stop at nothing!'

'The vindictive old—' Marcellus paused on the edge of a kennel
word.

'Think it over.' Lucia's tone was brighter, as if she felt herself gaining
ground. 'Come—let us eat our breakfast. Then you will go to Gaius, and
take your medicine. Praise him! Flatter him! He can stand any amount of it.
Tell him he is beautiful! Tell him there's nobody in the whole Empire as wise
as he is. Tell him he is divine! But—be sure you keep your face
straight. Gaius already knows you have a keen sense of humor.'

* * * * *

Having decided to accept his sister's counsel, Marcellus was anxious to
perform his unpleasant duty and be done with it. Prudence suggested that he
seek an interview through the formal channels and await the convenience of
the Prince; but, increasingly impressed by the gravity of his position, he
resolved to ignore the customary court procedure and take a chance of seeing
Gaius without an appointment. By appearing at the Palace shortly before noon,
he might even be lucky enough to have a few minutes alone with the Prince
before anyone had informed him about last night's mishap.

At ten, rejuvenated by a hot bath, a vigorous massage by Demetrius, and a
plunge in the pool, the Tribune returned to his rooms, dressed with care, and
sauntered downstairs. Observing that the library door was ajar, he paused to
greet his father, whom he had not seen since yesterday. The handsome,
white-haired Senator was seated at his desk, writing. He glanced up, nodded,
smiled briefly, and invited Marcellus to come in.

'If you are at liberty today, my son, I should be pleased to have you go
with me to inspect a span of matched Hispanian mares.'

'I should like to, sir; but might tomorrow serve as well? I have an
important errand to do; something that cannot be put off.' There was a note
of anxiety in the Tribune's voice that narrowed the wise old eyes.

'Nothing serious, I trust.' Gallio pointed to a vacant seat.

'I hope not, sir.' Marcellus sat tentatively on the broad arm of the chair
as a fair compromise between candid reticence and complete explanation.

'Your manner,' observed his father, pointedly, 'suggests that you are
worried. I have no wish to intrude upon your private perplexities, but is
there anything I might do for you?'

'I'm afraid not, sir; thank you.' After a moment of indecision, Marcellus
slowly slid into the chair and regarded his distinguished parent with a sober
face. 'If you have the time, I will tell you.'

Gallio nodded, put down his stylus, and leaned forward on his folded arms
encouragingly. It was quite a long narrative. Marcellus did not spare
himself. He told it all. At one juncture, he was half-disposed to introduce
Lucia's dilemma as relevant to his own; but decided against it, feeling that
their pater was getting about all he could take for one session. He
concluded, at length, with the declaration that he was going at once to
apologize. Gallio, who had listened attentively but without comment, now
shook his leonine head and shouted 'No!' He straightened and shook his head
again. 'No!—No, no!'

Amazed by his father's outburst, for he had anticipated his full approval,
Marcellus asked, 'Why not, sir?'

'The most dangerous implement a man can use for the repair of a damaged
relationship is an abject apology.' Gallio pushed back his huge chair and
rose to his full height as if preparing to deliver an address. 'Even in the
most favorable circumstances, as when placating an injured friend, a
self-abasing apology may do much harm. If the friend is contented with
nothing less, he should not be served with it at all; for his friendship is
not worth its upkeep. In the case of Gaius, an apology would be a fatality;
for you are not dealing here with a gentleman, but with a congenital
scoundrel. Your apology will imply that you expect Gaius to be generous.
Generosity, in his opinion, is a sign of weakness. By imputing it to him, you
will have given him further offense. Gaius has reasons to be sensitive about
his power. Never put yourself on the defensive with a man who is fretting
about his own insecurity. Here, he says, is at least one opportunity to
demonstrate my strength.'

'Perhaps you are right, sir,' conceded Marcellus.

'Perhaps? Of course, I am right!' The Senator walked to the door, closed
it softly, and resumed his seat. 'And that is not all,' he went on. 'Let me
refresh your mind about the peculiar relations in the imperial family which
explain why Gaius is a man to be watched and feared. There is old Tiberius,
alternately raging and rotting in his fifty-room villa on Capri; a pathetic
and disgusting figure, mooning over his necromancies and chattering to his
gods—My son,' Gallio interrupted himself, 'there is always something
fundamentally wrong with a rich man or a king who pretends to be religious.
Let the poor and helpless invoke the gods. That is what the gods are
for—to distract the attention of the weak from their otherwise
intolerable miseries. When an emperor makes much ado about religion, he is
either cracked or crooked. Tiberius is not crooked. If he is cracked, the
cause is not far to seek. For a score of years he has nursed a bitter grudge
against his mother for demanding that he divorce Vipsania—the only
creature he ever loved—'

'I think he is fond of Diana,' interjected Marcellus.

'Right! And why? He is fond of the child because she is Vipsania's
granddaughter. Let us remember that he was not a bad ruler in his earlier
days. Rome had never known such prosperity; not even under Julius. As you
know, when Vipsania passed out of his life, Tiberius went to pieces; lost all
interest in the Empire; surrounded himself with soothsayers, mountebanks,
priests, and astrologers. Presently his mind was so deranged by all this
nonsense that he consented to marry Julia, whom he had despised from
childhood.' The Senator chuckled, not very pleasantly, and remarked: 'Perhaps
that was why he wished to be relieved of all his administrative duties. He
found that to hate Julia as adequately as she deserved to be hated, he had to
make it a full-time occupation. So—there was the vixenish Julia,
together with the obnoxious offspring she had whelped before he married her.
And he has not only hated Julia: he has been deathly afraid of her—and
with good reason—for she has the morbid mind of an assassin—and
the courage, too.'

'Lucia says the old gentleman never touches his wine, at table, until the
Empress has tasted it,' put in Marcellus, 'but she thought that was just a
little family joke.'

'We will not disturb your young sister with any other interpretation,'
advised the Senator, 'but it is no joke; nor is Tiberius merely trying to be
playful when he stations a dozen Numidian gladiators at the doors and windows
of his bedchamber.... Now, these facts are, I suspect, never absent very long
from Gaius' mind. He knows that the Emperor is half-insane; that his mother
lives precariously; and that if anything should happen to her his regency
would last no longer than it takes a galley to clear for Crete with a deposed
prince on board.'

'Were that to happen,' broke in Marcellus, 'who would succeed Gaius?'

'Well—' Gallio slighted the query with a shrug. 'It will not happen.
If anyone dies, down there, it won't be Julia. You can depend on that.'

'But—just supposing—' persisted Marcellus. 'If, for any
reason—accident, illness, or forthright murder—Julia should be
eliminated—and Gaius, too, in consequence—do you think Tiberius
might put Asinius Gallus on the throne?'

'It is possible,' said Gallio. 'The Emperor might feel that he was making
tardy amends to Vipsania by honoring her son. And Gallus would be no mean
choice. No Roman has ever commanded more respect than Pollio, his learned
sire. Gallus would have the full support of our legions—both at home
and abroad. However'—he added, half to himself—'a brave soldier
does not inevitably make a wise monarch. Your military commander has only a
foreign foe to fight. All that he requires is tactics and bravery. An emperor
is forever at war with a jealous court, an obstreperous Senate, and a swarm
of avaricious landholders. What he needs is a keen scent for conspiracy, a
mind crafty enough to outmaneuver treachery, a natural talent for
duplicity—and the hide of an alligator.'

'Thick enough to turn the point of a stiletto,' assisted Marcellus.

'It is a hazardous occupation,' nodded Gallio, 'but I do not think our
excellent friend Gallus will ever be exposed to its dangers.'

'I wonder how Diana would like being a princess,' remarked Marcellus,
absently. He glanced up to find his father's eyes alight with curiosity.

'Not any more than Lucia is,' replied Marcellus, elaborately casual. 'They
are, as you know, inseparable. Naturally, I see Diana almost every day.'

'A beautiful and amazingly vivacious child,' commented the Senator.

'Beautiful and vivacious,' agreed Marcellus—'but not a child. Diana
is nearly sixteen, you know.'

'Old enough to be married: is that what you are trying to say? You could
hardly do better—if she can be tamed. Diana has fine blood. Sixteen,
eh? It is a wonder Gaius has not noticed. He might do himself much good in
the esteem of the Emperor—and he certainly is in need of it—if he
should win Diana's favor.'

'She loathes him!'

'Indeed? Then she has talked with you about it?'

'No, sir. Lucia told me.'

There was a considerable interval of silence before Gallio spoke again,
slowly measuring his words.

'In your present strained relation to Gaius, my son, you would show
discretion, I think, if you made your attentions to Diana as inconspicuous as
possible.'

'I never see her anywhere else than here, sir.'

'Even so: treat her casually. Gaius has spies everywhere.'

'Here—in our house?' Marcellus frowned incredulously.

'Why not? Do you think that Gaius, the son of Agrippa, who never had an
honest thought in his life, and of Julia, who was born with both ears shaped
like keyholes, would be too honorable for that?' Gallio deftly rolled up the
scroll that lay at his elbow, indicating that he was ready to put aside his
work for the day. 'We have discussed this fully enough, I think. As for what
occurred last night, the Prince's friends may advise him to let the matter
drop. Your best course is to do nothing, say nothing—and wait
developments.' He rose and straightened the lines of his toga. 'Come! Let us
ride to Ismael's camp and look at the Hispanians. You will like them;
milk-white, high-spirited, intelligent—and undoubtedly expensive.
Ismael, the old rascal, knows I am interested in them, unfortunately for my
purse.'

Marcellus responded eagerly to his father's elevated mood. It was almost
as if the shrewd Marcus Lucan Gallio had firmly settled the unhappy affair
with Gaius. He opened the door for the Senator to precede him. In the atrium,
leaning against a column, lounged Demetrius. Coming smartly to attention he
saluted with his spear and followed a few paces behind the two men as they
strolled through the vasty rooms and out to the spacious western portico.

'Rather unusual for Demetrius to be loitering in the atrium,' remarked
Marcellus in a guarded undertone.

'Perhaps he was standing there,' surmised Gallio, 'to discourage anyone
else from loitering by the door.'

'Do you think he may have had a special reason for taking that
precaution?'

'Possibly. He was with you at the banquet; knows that you gave offense to
Gaius; concludes that you are in disfavor; and, by adding it all up, thinks
it is time to be vigilant.'

'Shall I ask him if he suspects that there are spies in the house?'
suggested Marcellus.

Gallio shook his head.

'If he observes anything irregular, he will tell you, my son.'

'I wonder who this is coming.' Marcellus nodded toward a uniformed
Equestrian Knight who had just turned in from the Via Aurelia. 'We're to be
honored,' he growled. 'It is Quintus, the younger Tuscus. The Prince has been
seeing much of him lately, I hear.'

The youthful Tribune, followed by a well-mounted aide, rode briskly toward
them; and, neglecting to salute, drew a gilded scroll from the belt of his
tunic.

'I am ordered by His Highness, Prince Gaius, to deliver this message into
the hands of Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio,' he barked, haughtily. The aide,
who had dismounted, carried the scroll up the steps and handed it over.

'His Highness might do well to employ messengers with better manners,'
drawled Marcellus. 'Are you to await an answer?'

'Imperial commands require obedience; not replies!' shouted Quintus. He
pulled his horse about savagely, dug in his spurs, and made off, pursued by
his obsequious aide.

'Gaius is prompt,' commented the Senator. There was satisfaction on his
face as he watched his son's steady hands, and the cool deliberateness with
which he drew his dagger and thrust the point of it through the wax.
Unrolling the ostentatious document, Marcellus held it at an angle where his
father might share its contents. Gallio read it aloud, in a rasping
undertone.

Prince Gaius Drusus Agrippa to Trib. Marcellus Lucan Gallio:

Greeting:

The courage of a Military Tribune should not be squandered in
banquet-halls. It should be serving the Empire in positions where reckless
audacity is honorable and valorous. Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio is
commanded to report, before sunset, at the Praetorium of Chief Legate M.
Cornelius Capito, and receive his commission.

Marcellus rolled up the scroll, tossed it negligently to Demetrius, who
thrust it into the breast of his tunic; and, turning to his father, remarked,
'We have plenty of time to go out and see Ismael's horses.'

The Senator proudly drew himself erect, gave his son a respectful bow,
strutted down the marble steps; and, taking the bridle reins, mounted his
mettlesome black gelding. Marcellus beckoned to Demetrius.

'Well—I brought this upon myself,' said Marcellus. 'I shall not
order you to risk your life. You are at liberty to decide whether—'

'I shall go with you, sir.'

'Very good. Inspect my equipment—and look over your own tackle,
too.' Marcellus started down the steps, and turned to say, soberly, 'You're
going to your death, you know.'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius. 'You will need some heavier sandals, sir.
Shall I get them?'

'Yes—and several pairs for yourself. Ask Marcipor for the
money.'

After a lively tussle with the bay, who was impatient to overtake her
stable-mate, Marcellus drew up beside the Senator, and they slowed their
horses to a trot.

'I tarried for a word with Demetrius. I shall take him with me.'

'Of course.'

'I told him he might decide.'

'That was quite proper.'

'I told him he might never come back alive.'

'Probably not,' said the Senator, grimly, 'but you can be assured that he
will never come back alone.'

'Demetrius is a very sound fellow—for a slave,' observed
Marcellus.

The Senator made no immediate rejoinder, but his stern face and flexed jaw
indicated that his reflections were weighty.

'My son,' he said at length, staring moodily down the road, 'we could use
a few men in the Roman Senate with the brains and bravery of your slave,
Demetrius.' He pulled his horse down to a walk. '"Demetrius is a sound
fellow—for a slave"; eh? Well—his being a slave does not mean
that what he thinks, what he says, and what he does are unimportant. One of
these days the slaves are going to take over this rotted Government! They
could do it tomorrow if they were organized. You might say that their common
desire for liberty should unite them, but that is not enough. All men want
more liberty than they have. What the Roman slaves lack is leadership. In
time, that will come. You shall see!' The Senator paused so long, after this
amazing declaration, that Marcellus felt some response was in order.

'I never heard you express that opinion before, sir. Do you think there
will be an uprising—among the slaves?'

'It lacks form,' replied Gallio. 'It lacks cohesion. But some day it will
take shape; it will be integrated; it will develop a leader, a cause, a
slogan, a banner. Three-fourths of this city's inhabitants either have been
or are slaves. Daily our expeditionary forces arrive with new shiploads of
them. It would require a very shrewd and powerful Government to keep in
subjugation a force three times its size and strength. But—look at our
Government! A mere hollow shell! It has no moral fiber! Content with its
luxury, indolence, and profligacy, its extravagant pageants in honor of its
silly gods; ruled by an insane dotard and a drunken nonentity! So, my son,
Rome is doomed! I do not venture to predict when or how Nemesis will
arrive—but it is on its way. The Roman Empire is too weak and wicked to
survive!'

Cornelius Capito was not in when Marcellus called at three
to learn what Gaius had planned for him. This was surprising and a bit
ominous too. The conspicuous absence of the Chief Legate, and his deputizing
of a young understrapper to handle the case, clearly meant that Capito had no
relish for an unpleasant interview with the son of his lifelong friend.

The Gallios had walked their horses for the last two miles of the journey
in from Ismael's camp where the Senator had declined to purchase the
Hispanian mares at the exorbitant price demanded by the avaricious old
Syrian, though it was plain to see that the day's events had dulled his
interest in the negotiation.

The Senator's mind was fully occupied now with speculations about
Cornelius. If anybody in Rome could temper the punitive assignment which
Gaius intended for his son, it would be the Commander of the Praetorian Guard
and Chief of the Legates who wielded an enormous power in the making of
appointments.

Slipping into a reminiscent—and candidly pessimistic—mood, the
elder Gallio had recited the deplorable story they both knew by heart, the
dismal epic of the Praetorian Guard. Marcellus had been brought up on it. As
if his son had never heard the tale before, the Senator began away back in
the time when Julius Caesar had created this organization for his own
security. Picked men they were, with notable records for daring deeds. As the
years rolled on, the traditions of the Praetorian Guard became richer. A
magnificent armory was built to house its battle trophies, and in its
spacious atrium were erected bronze and marble tablets certifying to the
memorable careers of its heroes. To be a member of the Praetorian Guard in
those great—long since outmoded—days when courage and integrity
were valuable property, was the highest honor the Empire could bestow.

Then, Gallio had continued gloomily, Augustus—whose vanity had
swollen into a monstrous, stinking, cancerous growth—had begun to
confer honorary memberships upon his favorites; upon Senators who slavishly
approved his mistakes and weren't above softening the royal sandal-straps
with their saliva; upon certain rich men who had fattened on manipulations in
foreign loot; upon wealthy slave-brokers, dealers in stolen sculpture; upon
provincial revenue-collectors; upon almost anybody indeed who could minister
to the diseased Augustan ego, or pour ointment on his itching avarice. And
thus had passed away the glory and distinction of the Praetorian Guard. Its
memberships were for sale.

For a little while, Tiberius had tried to arrest its accelerating descent
into hell. Cornelius Capito, who had so often led his legion into suicidal
forays that a legend had taken shape about him—for were not the gods
directing a man whose life was so cheaply held and so miraculously
preserved?—was summoned home to be Commander of the Praetorian Guard.
Capito had not wanted the office, but had obeyed the command. With the same
kind of recklessness that had won him honors on many a battlefield, he had
begun to clean up the discredited institution. But it hadn't been long until
hard pressure on Tiberius made it necessary for the Emperor to caution the
uncompromising warrior about his honest zeal. He mustn't go too far in this
business of cleansing the Praetorian Guard.

'It was then,' declaimed Gallio, 'that brave old Capito discovered, to his
dismay, why Tiberius had called him to be the Commander; simply to use his
name as a deodorant!'

Marcellus had realized, at this juncture of his father's painful
reflections, that the remainder of the story would be somewhat embarrassing;
for it concerned the Military Tribunes.

'If Augustus had only been content'—the Senator was proceeding
according to schedule—'with his destruction of the Praetorian Guard!
Perhaps, had he foreseen the result of his policy there, not even his
rapacious greed could have induced him to work the same havoc with the Order
of Tribunes. But you know what happened, my son.'

Yes—Marcellus knew. The Order of Tribunes had been honorable too.
You had to be a Tribune, in deed and in truth, if you wanted to wear its
insignia. Like the Praetorian Guard, it too was handsomely quartered.
Tribunes, home on furlough or recovering from injuries or awaiting orders,
took advantage of the library, the baths, the commissary that the Empire had
provided for them. Then Augustus had decided to expand the Order of Tribunes
to include all sons of Senators and influential taxpayers. You needn't ever
have shouted an order or spent a night in a tent. If your father had enough
money and political weight, you could wear the uniform and receive the
salute.

Marcellus liked to think that his own case was not quite so indefensible
as most of them. He had not been a mere playboy. At the Academy he had given
his full devotion to the history of military campaigns, strategy, and
tactics. He was an accomplished athlete, expert with the javelin, a winner of
many prizes for marksmanship with the bow. He handled a dueling sword with
the skill of a professional gladiator.

Nor had his recreations been profitless. Aristocratic youths, eligible to
the hierarchy of public offices, disdained any actual practice of the fine
arts. They affected to be critics and connoisseurs of painting and sculpture,
but would have experienced much embarrassment had they been caught with a
brush or chisel in hand. Independent of this taboo, Marcellus had taken a
serious interest in sculpture, much to the delight of his father,
who—upon observing that he had a natural genius for it—had
provided him with competent tutors.

But—sometimes he had been appropriately sensitive about his status
as a Military Tribune when, as happened infrequently, some REAL Tribune
showed up at the ornate clubhouse, bronzed and battered and bandaged, after
grueling months on active duty.

However—Marcellus said to himself—it wasn't as if he had no
qualifications for military service. He was abundantly prepared to accept a
commission if required to do so. Occasionally he had wished that an
opportunity for such service might arise. He had never been asked to take a
command. And a man would be a fool, indeed, to seek a commission. War was a
swinish business, intended for bullies who liked to strut their medals and
yell obscenities at their inferiors and go for weeks without a bath. He could
do all this if he had to. He didn't have to; but he had never been honestly
proud of his title. Sometimes when Decimus addressed him as
Tribune'—which was the surly fellow's custom on such occasions as
serving him his late breakfast in bed—Marcellus was tempted to slap
him, and he would have done so had he a better case.

They had ridden in silence for a little time, after the Senator had aired
his favorite grievances.

'Once in a while,' continued Gallio, meditatively, 'crusty Capito—
like blind Samson of the Hebrew myth—rouses to have his way. I am
hopeful that he may intervene in your behalf, my son. If it is an honorable
post, we will not lament even though it involves peril. I am prepared to hand
you over to danger—but not to disgrace. I cannot believe that my
trusted friend will fail to do his utmost for you, today. I bid you to
approach him with that expectation!'

His father had seemed so confident of this outcome that the remainder of
their ride had been almost enjoyable. Assured that the gruff but loyal old
warrior, who had helped him into his first white toga, would see to it that
no indignities were practiced on him by a petulant and vengeful Prince,
Marcellus set off light-heartedly to the impressive headquarters of the Chief
Legate.

Accompanied by Demetrius, who was himself a striking figure in the saddle,
he rode through the increasingly crowded streets on the way to the huge
circular plaza, around half of which were grouped the impressive marble
buildings serving the Praetorian Guard and ranking officials of the army. To
the left stretched a vast parade-ground, now literally filled with loaded
camel caravans and hundreds of pack-asses.

An expedition was mobilizing, ready for departure on the long trip to
Gaul. The plaza was a stirring scene! Banners fluttered. The young officers
were smart in their field uniforms. The legionaries were alert, spirited,
apparently eager to be on their way. Maybe an experience of this sort would
be stimulating, thought Marcellus.

Unable to ride into the plaza, because of the congestion, they dismounted
in the street, Marcellus handing his reins to Demetrius, and proceeding
through the narrow lane toward the Praetorium. The broad corridors were
filled with Centurions awaiting orders. Many of them he knew. They smiled
recognition and saluted. Perhaps they surmised that he was here on some such
business as their own, and it gave him a little thrill of pride. You could
think what you liked about the brutishness and griminess of war, it was no
small honor to be a Roman soldier—whatever your rank! He shouldered his
way to the open door leading into Capito's offices.

'The Commander is not in,' rasped the busy deputy. 'He ordered me to
deliver this commission to you.'

Marcellus took the heavily sealed scroll from the fellow's hand, hesitated
a moment, half-inclined to inquire whether Capito expected to return
presently, decided against it; turned, and went out, down the broad steps and
across the densely packed plaza. Demetrius, seeing him coming, led the horses
forward and handed his master the bay mare's bridle-reins. Their eyes met.
After all, thought Marcellus, Demetrius had a right to know where we stood in
this business.

'I have not opened it yet,' he said, tapping the scroll. 'Let us go
home.'

* * * * *

The Senator was waiting for him in the library.

'Well—what did our friend Capito have for you?' he asked, making no
attempt to disguise his uneasiness.

'He was not there. A deputy served me.' Marcellus laid the scroll on the
desk and sat down to wait while his father impatiently thrust his knife
through the heavy seals. For what seemed a very long time the narrowed eyes
raced the length of the pompous manifesto. Then Gallio cleared his throat,
and faced his son with troubled eyes.

'You are ordered to take command of the garrison at Minoa,' he
muttered.

'Where's Minoa?'

'Minoa is a villainously dirty little port city in southern
Palestine.'

'I never heard of it,' said Marcellus. 'I know about our forts at Caesarea
and Joppa; but—what have we at this Minoa?'

'It is the point of departure for the old trail that leads to the Dead
Sea. Most of our salt comes from there, as you probably know. The duty of our
garrison at Minoa is to make that road safe for our caravans.'

'Well—you will not be disappointed. It is dangerous enough. The
Bedouins who menace that salt trail are notoriously brutal savages. But
because they are independent gangs of bandits, with hideouts in that rocky
desert region, we have never undertaken a campaign to crush them. It would
have required five legions.' The Senator was speaking as if he were very well
informed about Minoa, and Marcellus was listening with full attention.

'You mean these desert brigands steal the salt from our caravans?'

'No—not the salt. They plunder the caravans on the way in, for they
have to carry supplies and money to hire laborers at the salt deposits. Many
of the caravans that set out over that trail are never heard from again. But
that isn't quite all,' the Senator continued. 'We have not been wasting very
good men in the fort at Minoa. The garrison is composed of a tough lot of
rascals. More than half of them were once commissioned officers who, for rank
insubordination or other irregularities, are in disfavor with the Government.
The lesser half is made up of an assortment of brawlers whose politics bred
discontent.'

'I thought the Empire had a more prompt and less expensive method of
dealing with objectionable people.'

'There are some cases,' explained the Senator, 'in which a public trial or
a private assassination might stir up a protest. In these instances, it is as
effective—and more practical—to send the offender to Minoa.'

'Why, sir—this is equivalent to exile!' Marcellus rose, bent forward
over his father's desk, and leaned his weight on his white-knuckled fists.
'Do you know anything more about this dreadful place?'

Gallio slowly nodded his head.

'I know all about it, my son. For many years, one of my special duties in
the Senate—together with four of my colleagues—has been the
supervision of that fort.' He paused, and began slowly rising to his feet,
his deep-lined face livid with anger. 'I believe that was why Gaius Drusus
Agrippa—' The Senator savagely ground the hated name to bits with his
teeth. 'He planned this for my son—because he knew—that I would
know—what you were going into.' Raising his arms high, and shaking his
fists in rage, Gallio shouted, 'Now I would that I were religious! I would
beseech some god to damn his soul!'

* * * * *

Cornelia Vipsania Gallio, who always slightly accented her middle
name—though she was only a stepdaughter to the divorced spouse of
Emperor Tiberius—might have been socially important had she made the
necessary effort.

If mere wishing on Cornelia's part could have induced her husband to
ingratiate himself with the Crown, Marcus Lucan Gallio could have belonged to
the inner circle, and any favor he desired for himself or his family might
have been granted; or if Cornelia herself had gone to the bother of fawning
upon the insufferable old Julia, the Gallio household might have reached that
happy elevation by this shorter route. But Cornelia lacked the necessary
energy.

She was an exquisite creature, even in her middle forties; a person of
considerable culture, a gracious hostess, an affectionate wife, an indulgent
mother, and probably the laziest woman in the whole Roman Empire. It was said
that sometimes slaves would serve the Gallio establishment for months before
discovering that their mistress was not an invalid.

Cornelia had her breakfast in bed at noon, lounged in her rooms or in the
sunny garden all afternoon, drowsed over the classics, apathetically swept
her slim fingers across the strings of her pandura; and was waited on, hand
and foot, by everybody in the house. And everybody loved her, too, for she
was kind and easy to please. Moreover, she never gave orders—except for
her personal comfort. The slaves—under the competent and loyal
supervision of Marcipor; and the diligent, if somewhat surly, dictatorship of
Decimus in the culinary department—managed the institution unaided by
her counsel and untroubled by her criticism. She was by nature an optimist,
possibly because fretting was laborious. On rare occasions, she was briefly
baffled by unhappy events, and at such times she wept quietly—and
recovered.

Yesterday, however, something had seriously disturbed her habitual
tranquillity. The Senator had made a speech. Paula Gallus, calling in the
late afternoon, had told her. Paula had been considerably upset.

Cornelia was not surprised by the report that her famous husband was
pessimistic in regard to the current administration of Roman government, for
he was accustomed to walking the floor of her bedchamber while delivering
opinions of this nature; but she was shocked to learn that Marcus had given
the Senate the full benefit of his accumulated dissatisfactions. Cornelia had
no need to ask Paula why she was so concerned. Paula didn't want Senator
Gallio to get himself into trouble with the Crown. In the first place, it
would be awkward for Diana to continue her close friendship with Lucia if the
latter's eminent parent persisted in baiting Prince Gaius. And, too, was
there not a long-standing conspiracy between Paula and Cornelia to encourage
an alliance of their houses whenever Diana and Marcellus should become
romantically aware of each other?

Paula had not hinted at these considerations when informing Cornelia that
the Senator was cutting an impressive figure on some pretty thin ice, but she
had gone so far as to remind her long-time friend that Prince
Gaius—while notably unskillful at everything else—was amazingly
resourceful and ingenious when it came to devising reprisals for his
critics.

'But what can I do about it?' Cornelia had moaned languidly. 'Surely
you're not hoping that I will rebuke him. My husband would not like to have
people telling him what he may say in the Senate.'

'Not even his wife?' Paula arched her patrician brows.

'Especially his wife,' rejoined Cornelia. 'We have a tacit understanding
that Marcus is to attend to his profession without my assistance. My
responsibility is to manage his home.'

Paula had grinned dryly; and, shortly after, had taken her departure,
leaving behind her a distressing dilemma. Cornelia wished that the Senator
could be a little less candid. He was such an amiable man when he wanted to
be. Of course, Gaius was a waster and a fool; but—after all—he
was the Prince Regent, and you didn't have to call him names in public
assemblies. First thing you knew, they'd all be blacklisted. Paula Gallus was
far too prudent to let Diana become involved in their scrapes. If the
situation became serious, they wouldn't be seeing much more of Diana. That
would be a great grief to Lucia. And it might affect the future of Marcellus,
too. It was precious little attention he had paid to the high-spirited young
Diana, but Cornelia was still hopeful.

Sometimes she worried, for a moment or two, about Marcellus. One of her
most enjoyable dreams posed her son on a beautiful white horse, leading a
victorious army through the streets, dignifiedly acknowledging the plaudits
of a multitude no man could number. To be sure, you didn't head that sort of
parade unless you had risked some perils; but Marcellus had never been a
coward. All he needed was a chance to show what kind of stuff he was made of.
He would probably never get that chance now. Cornelia cried bitterly; and
because there was no one else to talk to about it, she bared her heart to
Lucia. And Lucia, shocked by her mother's unprecedented display of emotion,
had tried to console her.

But today, Cornelia had quite disposed of her anxiety; not because the
reason for it had been in any way relieved, but because she was
temperamentally incapable of concentrating diligently upon anything—
not even upon a threatened catastrophe.

* * * * *

About four o'clock (Cornelia was in her luxurious sitting-room, gently
combing her shaggy terrier) the Senator entered and without speaking dropped
wearily into a chair, frowning darkly.

'Tired?' asked Cornelia, tenderly. 'Of course you are. That long ride. And
you were disappointed with the Hispanian horses, I think. What was the matter
with them?'

'Marcellus has been ordered into service,' growled Gallio, abruptly.

Cornelia pushed the dog off her lap and leaned forward interestedly.

'But that is as it should be, don't you think? We had expected that it
might happen some day. Perhaps we should be glad. Will it take him far
away?'

'Yes.' The Senator nodded impressively. 'Far away. He has been ordered to
command the fort at Minoa.'

'Command! How very nice for him! Minoa! Our son is to be the
commander—of the Roman fort—at Minoa! We shall be proud!'

'No!' Gallio shook his white head. 'No!' We shall not be proud! Minoa, my
dear, is where we send men to be well rid of them. They have little to do
there but quarrel. They are a mob of mutinous cut-throats. We frequently have
to appoint a new commander.' He paused for a long, moody moment. 'This time
the Senate Committee on affairs at Minoa was not consulted about the
appointment. Our son had his orders directly from Gaius.'

This was too much even for the well-balanced Cornelia. She broke into a
storm of weeping; noisily hysterical weeping; her fingers digging frantically
into the glossy black hair that had tumbled about her shapely shoulders;
moaning painful and incoherent reproaches that gradually became intelligible.
Racked with sobs, Cornelia amazed them both by crying out, 'Why did you do
it, Marcus? Oh—why did you have to bring this tragedy upon our son? Was
it so important that you should denounce Gaius—at such a cost to
Marcellus—and all of us? Oh—I wish I could have died before this
day!'

Gallio bowed his head in his hands and made no effort to share the blame
with Marcellus. His son was in plenty of trouble without the added burden of
a rebuke from his overwrought mother.

'Where is he?' she asked, thickly, trying to compose herself. 'I must see
him.'

'Packing his kit, I think,' muttered Gallio. 'He is ordered to leave at
once. A galley will take him to Ostia where a ship sails tomorrow.'

'A ship? What ship? If he must go, why cannot he travel in a manner
consistent with his rank? Surely he can charter or buy a vessel, and sail in
comfort as becomes a Tribune.'

'There is no time for that, my dear. They are leaving tonight.'

'They? Marcellus—and who else?'

'Demetrius.'

'Well—the gods be thanked for that much!' Cornelia broke out again
into tempestuous weeping. 'Why doesn't Marcellus come to see me?' she
sobbed.

'He will, in a little while,' said Gallio. 'He wanted me to tell you about
it first. And I hope you will meet him in the spirit of a courageous Roman
matron.' The Senator's tone was almost severe now. 'Our son has received some
very unhappy tidings. He is bearing them manfully, calmly, according to our
best traditions. But I do not think he could bear to see his mother destroy
herself in his presence.'

'Destroy myself!' Cornelia, stunned by the words, faced him with anguished
eyes. 'You know I could never do a thing like that—no matter what
happened to us!'

'One does not have to swallow poison or hug a dagger, my dear, to commit
suicide. One can kill oneself and remain alive physically.' Gallio rose, took
her hand, and drew Cornelia to her feet. 'Dry your tears now, my love,' he
said gently. 'When Marcellus comes, let him continue to be proud of you.
There may be some trying days ahead for our son. Perhaps the memory of an
intrepid mother will rearm him when he is low in spirit.'

'I shall try, Marcus.' Cornelia clung to him hungrily. It had been a long
time since they had needed each other so urgently.

* * * * *

After Marcellus had spent a half-hour alone with his mother—an
ordeal he had dreaded—his next engagement was with his sister. Father
had informed Lucia, and she had sent word by Tertia that she would be waiting
for him in the pergola whenever it was convenient for him to come.

But first he must return to his rooms with the silk pillow his mother had
insisted on giving him. It would be one more thing for Demetrius to add to
their already cumbersome impedimenta, but it seemed heartless to refuse the
present, particularly in view of the fine fortitude with which she had
accepted their mutual misfortune. She had been tearful, but there had been no
painful break-up of her emotional discipline.

Marcellus found the luggage packed and strapped for the journey, but
Demetrius was nowhere to be found. Marcipor, who had appeared in the doorway
to see if he might be of service, was queried; and replied, with some
reluctance and obvious perplexity, that he had seen Demetrius on his horse,
galloping furiously down the driveway, fully an hour ago. Marcellus accepted
this information without betraying his amazement. It was quite possible that
the Greek had belatedly discovered the lack of some equipment necessary to
their trip, and had set off for it minus the permission to do so. It was
inconceivable that Demetrius would take advantage of this opportunity to make
a dash for freedom. No, decided Marcellus, it wouldn't be that. But the
incident needed explanation, for if Demetrius had gone for additional
supplies he would not have strapped the luggage until his return.

Lucia was leaning against the balustrade, gazing toward the Tiber where
little sails reflected final flashes of almost horizontal sunshine, and
galleys moved so sluggishly they would have seemed not to be in motion at all
but for the rhythmic dip of the long oars. One galley, a little larger than
the others, was headed toward a wharf. Lucia cupped her hands about her eyes
and was so intent upon the sinister black hulk that she did not hear
Marcellus coming.

He joined her without words, and circled her girlish waist tenderly. She
slipped her arm about him, but did not turn her head.

'Might that be your galley?' she asked, pointing. 'It has three banks, I
think, and a very high prow. Isn't that the kind that meets ships at
Ostia?'

'That's the kind,' agreed Marcellus, pleased that the conversation
promised to be dispassionate. 'Perhaps that is the boat.'

Lucia slowly turned about in his arms and affectionately patted his cheeks
with her soft palms. She looked up, smiling resolutely, her lips quivering a
little; but she was doing very well, her brother thought. He hoped his eyes
were assuring her of his approval.

'I am so glad you are taking Demetrius,' she said, steadily. 'He wanted to
go?'

'Yes,' replied Marcellus, adding after a pause, 'Yes—he quite wanted
to go.' They stood in silence for a little while, her fingers gently toying
with the knotted silk cord at the throat of his tunic.

'All packed up?' Lucia was certainly doing a good job, they both felt. Her
voice was well under control.

'Yes.' Marcellus nodded with a smile that meant everything was proceeding
normally, just as if they were leaving on a hunting excursion. 'Yes,
dear—all ready to go.' There was another longer interval of
silence.

'Of course, you don't know—yet'—said Lucia—'when you
will be coming home.'

'No,' said Marcellus. After a momentary hesitation he added, 'Not
yet.'

Suddenly Lucia drew a long, agonized 'Oh!'—wrapped her arms tightly
around her brother's neck, buried her face against his breast, and shook with
stifled sobs. Marcellus held her trembling body close.

'No, no,' he whispered. 'Let's see it through, precious child. It's not
easy; but—well—we must behave like Romans, you know.'

Lucia stiffened, flung back her head, and faced him with streaming eyes
aflame with anger.

'Like Romans!' she mocked. 'Behave like Romans! And what does a Roman ever
get for being brave—and pretending it is fine—and noble—to
give up everything—and make-believe it is glorious—glorious to
suffer—and die—for Rome! For Rome! I hate Rome! Look what Rome
has done to you—and all of us! Why can't we live in peace? The Roman
Empire—Bah! What is the Roman Empire? A great swarm of slaves! I don't
mean slaves like Tertia and Demetrius; I mean slaves like you and
me—all our lives bowing and scraping and flattering; our legions
looting and murdering—and for what? To make Rome the capital of the
world, they say! But why should the whole world be ruled by a lunatic like
old Tiberius and a drunken bully like Gaius? I hate Rome! I hate it all!'

Marcellus made no effort to arrest the torrent, thinking it more practical
to let his sister wear her passion out—and have done with it. She hung
limp in his arms now, her heart pounding hard.

'Feel better?' he asked, sympathetically. She slowly nodded against his
breast. Instinctively glancing about, Marcellus saw Demetrius standing a few
yards away with his face averted from them. 'I must see what he wants,' he
murmured, relaxing his embrace. Lucia slipped from his arms and stared again
at the river, unwilling to let the imperturbable Greek see her so nearly
broken.

'The daughter of Legate Gallus is here, sir,' announced Demetrius.

'I can't see Diana now, Marcellus,' put in Lucia, thickly. 'I'll go down
through the gardens, and you talk to her.' She raised her voice a little.

'Bring Diana to the pergola, Demetrius.' Without waiting for her brother's
approval, she walked rapidly toward the circular marble stairway that led to
the arbors and the pool. Assuming that his master's silence confirmed the
order, Demetrius was setting off on his errand. Marcellus recalled him with a
quiet word and he retraced his steps.

'Do you suppose she knows?' asked Marcellus, frowning.

'Yes, sir.'

'What makes you think so?'

'The daughter of Legate Gallus appears to have been weeping, sir.'

Marcellus winced and shook his head.

'I hardly know what to say to her,' he confided, mostly to himself, a
dilemma that Demetrius made no attempt to solve. 'But'—Marcellus
sighed—'I suppose I must see her.'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius, departing on his errand.

Turning toward the balustrade, Marcellus watched his sister's dejected
figure moving slowly through the arbors, and his heart was suffused with
pity. He had never seen Lucia so forlorn and undone. It was not much wonder
if she had a reluctance to meet Diana in her present state of collapse.
Something told him that this impending interview with Diana was likely to be
difficult. He had not often been alone with her, even for a moment. This time
they would not only be alone, but in circumstances extremely trying. He was
uncertain what attitude he should take toward her.

She was coming now, out through the peristyle, walking with her usual
effortless grace, but lacking animation. It was unlike Demetrius to send a
guest to the pergola unattended, even though well aware that Diana knew the
way. Damn Demetrius!—he was behaving very strangely this afternoon.
Greeting Diana might be much more natural and unconstrained if he were
present. Marcellus sauntered along the pavement to meet her. It was true, as
Lucia had said; Diana was growing up—and she was lovelier in this
pensiveness than he had ever seen her. Perhaps the bad news had taken all the
adolescent bounce out of her. But, whatever might account for it, Diana had
magically matured. His heart speeded a little. The elder-brotherly smile with
which he was preparing to welcome her seemed inappropriate if not insincere,
and as Diana neared him, his eyes were no less sober than hers.

She gave him both hands, at his unspoken invitation, and looked up from
under her long lashes, winking back the tears and trying to smile. Marcellus
had never faced her like this before, and the intimate contact stirred him.
As he looked deeply into her dark eyes, it was almost as if he were
discovering her; aware, for the first time, of her womanly contours, her
finely sculptured brows, the firm but piquant chin, and the full
lips—now parted with painful anxiety—disclosing even white teeth,
tensely locked.

'I am glad you came, Diana.' Marcellus had wanted this to sound fraternal,
but it didn't. He was intending to add, 'Lucia will want to see you
presently'—but he didn't; nor did he release her hands. It mystified
him that she could stand still that long.

'Are you really going—tonight?' she asked, in a husky whisper.

Marcellus stared into her uplifted eyes, marveling that the tempestuous,
teasing, unpredictable Diana had suddenly become so winsome.

'How did you know?' he queried. 'Who could have told you so soon? I
learned about it myself not more than three hours ago.'

'Does it matter—how I found out?' She hesitated, as if debating what
next to say. 'I had to come, Marcellus,' she went on, bravely. 'I knew you
would have no time—to come to me—and say good-bye.'

'It was very—' He stopped on the verge of 'kind,' which, he felt,
would be too coolly casual, and saw Diana's eyes swimming with tears. 'It was
very dear of you,' he said, tenderly. Marcellus clasped her hands more firmly
and drew her closer. She responded, after a momentary reluctance.

'I wouldn't have done it, of course,' she said, rather breathlessly—
'if the time hadn't been so short. We're all going to miss you.' Then, a
little unsteadily, she asked, 'Will I hear from you, Marcellus?' And when he
did not immediately find words to express his happy surprise, she shook her
head and murmured, 'I shouldn't have said that, I think. You will have more
than enough to do. We can learn about each other through Lucia.'

'But I shall want to write to you, dear,' declared Marcellus, 'and you
will write to me—often—I hope. Promise!'

Diana smiled mistily, and Marcellus watched her dimples deepen—and
disappear. His heart skipped a beat when she whispered, 'You will write to me
tonight? And send it back from Ostia—on the galley?'

'Yes—Diana!'

'Where is Lucia?' she asked, impetuously reclaiming her hands.

'Down in the arbors,' said Marcellus.

Before he realized her intention, Diana had run away. At the top of the
stairs she paused to wave to him. He was on the point of calling to
her—to wait a moment—that he had something more to say; but the
utter hopelessness of his predicament kept him silent. What more, he asked
himself, did he want to say to Diana? What promise could he make to
her—or exact of her? No—it was better to let this be their
leave-taking. He waved her a kiss—and she vanished down the stairway.
It was quite possible—quite probable indeed—that he would never
see Diana again.

Moodily, he started toward the house; then abruptly turned back to the
pergola. The girls had met and were strolling, arm in arm, through the rose
arbor. Perhaps he was having a final glimpse of his lovable young sister,
too. There was no good reason why he should put Lucia to the additional pain
of another farewell.

It surprised him to see Demetrius ascending the stairway. What errand
could have taken him down to the gardens, wondered Marcellus. Perhaps he
would explain without being queried. His loyal Corinthian was not acting
normally today. Presently he appeared at the top of the stairs and approached
with the long, military stride that Marcellus had often found difficult to
match when they were out on hunting trips. Demetrius seemed very well pleased
about something; better than merely pleased. He was exultant! Marcellus had
never seen such an expression on his slave's face.

'Shall I have the dunnage taken down to the galley now, sir?' asked
Demetrius, in a voice that betrayed recent excitement.

'Yes—if it is ready.' Marcellus was organizing a question, but found
it difficult, and decided not to pry. 'You may wait for me at the wharf,' he
added.

'You will have had dinner, sir?'

Marcellus nodded; then suddenly changed his mind. He had taken leave of
his family, one by one. They had all borne up magnificently. It was too much
to ask of them—and him—that they should undergo a repetition of
this distress in one another's presence.

'No,' he said, shortly. 'I shall have my dinner on the galley. You may
arrange for it.'

'Yes, sir.' Demetrius' tone indicated that he quite approved of this
decision.

Marcellus followed slowly toward the house. There were plenty of things he
would have liked to do, if he had been given one more day. There was Tullus,
for one. He must leave a note for Tullus.

* * * * *

Upon meeting in the arbor, Lucia and Diana had both wept, wordlessly. Then
they had talked in broken sentences about the possibilities of Marcellus'
return, his sister fearing the worst, Diana wondering whether some pressure
might be brought to bear on Gaius.

'You mean'—Lucia queried—'that perhaps my father
might—'

'No.' Diana shook her head decisively. 'Not your father. It would have to
be done some other way.' Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

'Maybe your father could do something about it,' suggested Lucia.

'I don't know. Perhaps he might, if he were here. But his business in
Marseilles may keep him stationed there until next winter.'

'You said good-bye to Marcellus?' asked Lucia, after they had walked on a
little way in silence. She questioned Diana's eyes and smiled pensively as
she watched the color creeping up her cheeks. Diana nodded and pressed
Lucia's arm affectionately, but made no other response.

'How did Demetrius get down here so fast?' she asked, impulsively. 'He
came for me, you know, telling me Marcellus was leaving and wanted to see me.
Just now I passed him. Don't tell me that slave was saying
good-bye—like an equal?'

'It was rather strange,' admitted Lucia. 'Demetrius had never spoken to me
in his life, except to acknowledge an order. I hardly knew what to make of
it, Diana. He came out here, saluted with his usual formality, and delivered
a little speech that sounded as if he had carefully rehearsed it. He said, "I
am going away with the Tribune. I may never return. I wish to bid farewell to
the sister of my master and thank her for being kind to her brother's slave.
I shall remember her goodness." Then he took this ring out of his
wallet—'

'Ring?' echoed Diana, incredulously. 'Hold still. Let me look at it,' she
breathed. Lucia held up her hand, with fingers outspread, for a closer
inspection in the waning light. 'Pretty; isn't it?' commented Diana. 'What is
that device—a ship?'

'Demetrius said,' continued Lucia, '"I should like to leave this with my
master's sister. If I come back, she may return it to me. If I do not come
back, it shall be hers. My father gave it to my mother. It is the only
possession I was able to save."'

'But—how queer!' murmured Diana. 'What did you say to him?'

'Well—what could I say?' Lucia's tone was self-defensive. 'After
all—he is going away with my brother—at the risk of his own life.
He's human; isn't he?'

'I thanked him,' said Lucia, exasperatingly deliberate, 'and told him I
thought it was wonderful of him—and I do think it was, Diana—to
let me keep his precious ring; and—and—I said I hoped they would
both come home safely—and I promised to take good care of his
keepsake.'

'That was all right, I suppose,' nodded Diana, judicially. 'And—
then what?' They had stopped on the tiled path, and Lucia seemed a little
confused.

'Well,' she stammered, 'he was still standing there—and I gave him
my hand.'

'You didn't!' exclaimed Diana. 'To a slave?'

'To shake, you know,' defended Lucia. 'Why shouldn't I have been willing
to shake hands with Demetrius? He's as clean as we are; certainly a lot
cleaner than Bambo, who is always pawing me.'

'That's not the point, Lucia, whether Demetrius' hands are cleaner than
Bambo's feet—and you know it. He is a slave, and we can't be too
careful.' Diana's tone was distinctly stern, until her curiosity overwhelmed
her indignation. 'So—then'—she went on, a little more
gently—'he shook hands with you.'

'No—it was ever so much worse than that.' Lucia grinned at the sight
of Diana's shocked eyes. 'Demetrius took my hand, and put the ring on my
finger—and then he kissed my hand—and—well—after all,
Diana—he's going away with Marcellus—maybe to die for him! What
should I have done? Slap him?'

Diana laid her hands on Lucia's shoulders and looked her squarely in the
eyes.

'Quite!' After a pause, she said, 'You're not expecting to wear that ring;
are you, Lucia?'

'No. There's no reason why I should. It might get lost. And I don't want
to hurt Tertia.'

'Is Tertia in love with Demetrius?'

'Mad about him! She has been crying her eyes out, this afternoon, the poor
dear.'

'Does Demetrius know?'

'I don't see how he could help it.'

'And he doesn't care for her?'

'Not that way. I made him promise he would say good-bye to her.'

'Lucia—had it ever occurred to you that Demetrius has been secretly
in love with you—maybe for a long time?'

'He has never given me any reason to think so,' replied Lucia, rather
vaguely.

'Until today, you mean,' persisted Diana.

Lucia meditated an answer for a long moment.

'Diana,' she said soberly, 'Demetrius is a slave. That is true. That is
his misfortune. He was gently bred, in a home of refinement, and brought here
in chains by ruffians who weren't fit to tie his sandals!' Her voice trembled
with suppressed anger. 'Of course'—she went on, bitterly
ironical—'their being Romans made all the difference! Just so you're a
Roman, you don't have to know anything—but pillage and bloodshed! Don't
you realize, Diana, that everything in the Roman Empire today that's worth a
second thought on the part of any decent person was stolen from Greece? Tell
me!—how does it happen that we speak Greek, in preference to Latin?
It's because the Greeks are leagues ahead of us, mentally. There's only one
thing we do better: we're better butchers!'

Diana frowned darkly.

With her lips close to Lucia's ear, she said guardedly, 'You are a fool to
say such things—even to me! It's too dangerous! Isn't your family in
enough trouble? Do you want to see all of us banished—or in
prison?'

* * * * *

Marcellus stood alone at the rail of the afterdeck. He had not arrived at
the wharf until a few minutes before the galley's departure; and, going up to
the cramped and stuffy cabin to make sure his heavy luggage had been safely
stowed, was hardly aware that they were out in the river until he came down
and looked about. Already the long warehouse and the docks had retreated into
the gloom, and the voices sounded far away.

High up on an exclusive residential hillside, two small points of light
flickered. He identified them as the brasiers at the eastern corners of the
pergola. Perhaps his father was standing there at the balustrade.

Now they had passed the bend and the lights had disappeared. It was as if
the first scroll of his life had now been written, read, and sealed. The pink
glow that was Rome had faded and the stars were brightening. Marcellus viewed
them with a strange interest. They seemed like so many unresponsive
spectators; not so dull-eyed and apathetic as the Sphinx, but calmly
observant, winking occasionally to relieve the strain and clear their vision.
He wondered whether they were ever moved to sympathy or admiration; or if
they cared, at all.

After a while he became conscious of the inexorable rasp of sixty oars
methodically swinging with one obedience to the metallic blows of the
boatswain's hammers as he measured their slavery on his huge anvil.... Click!
Clack! Click! Clack!

Home—and Life—and Love made a final, urgent tug at his spirit.
He wished he might have had an hour with Tullus, his closest friend. Tullus
hadn't even heard what had happened to him. He wished he had gone back once
more to see his mother. He wished he had kissed Diana. He wished he had not
witnessed the devastating grief of his sister.... Click! Clack! Click!
Clack!

He turned about and noticed Demetrius standing in the shadows near the
ladder leading to the cabins. It was a comfort to sense the presence of his
loyal slave. Marcellus decided to engage him in conversation; for the steady
hammer-blows, down deep in the galley's hull, were beginning to pound hard in
his temples. He beckoned. Demetrius approached and stood at attention.
Marcellus made the impatient little gesture with both hands and a shake of
the head which, by long custom, had come to mean, 'Be at ease! Be a friend!'
Demetrius relaxed his stiff posture and drifted over to the rail beside
Marcellus where he silently and without obvious curiosity waited his master's
pleasure.

'Demetrius'—Marcellus swept the sky with an all-inclusive
arm—'do you ever believe in the gods?'

'If it is my master's wish, I do,' replied Demetrius, perfunctorily.

'No, no,' said Marcellus, testily, 'be honest. Never mind what I believe.
Tell me what you think about the gods. Do you ever pray to them?'

'When I was a small boy, sir,' complied Demetrius, 'my mother taught us to
invoke the gods. She was quite religious. There was a pretty statue of
Priapus in our flower garden. I can still remember my mother kneeling there,
on a fine spring day, with a little trowel in one hand and a basket of plants
in the other. She believed that Priapus made things grow.... And my mother
prayed to Athene every morning when my brothers and I followed the teacher
into our schoolroom.' He was silent for a while; and then, prodded by an
encouraging nod from Marcellus, he continued: 'My father offered libations to
the gods on their feast-days, but I think that was to please my mother.'

'This is most interesting—and touching, too,' observed Marcellus.
'But you haven't quite answered my question, Demetrius. Do you believe in the
gods—now?'

'No, sir.'

'Do you mean that you don't believe they render any service to men? Or do
you doubt that the gods exist, at all?'

'I think it better for the mind, sir, to disbelieve in their existence.
The last time I prayed—it was on the day that our home was broken up.
As my father was led away in chains, I knelt by my mother and we prayed to
Zeus—the Father of gods and men—to protect his life. But Zeus
either did not hear us; or, hearing us, had no power to aid us; or, having
power to aid us, refused to do so. It is better, I think, to believe that he
did not hear us than to believe that he was unable or unwilling to give aid.
... That afternoon my mother went away—upon her own
invitation—because she could bear no more sorrow.... I have not prayed
to the gods since that day, sir. I have cursed and reviled them, on
occasions; but with very little hope that they might resent my blasphemies.
Cursing the gods is foolish and futile, I think.'

Marcellus chuckled grimly. This fine quality of contempt for the gods
surpassed any profanity he had ever heard. Demetrius had spoken without heat.
He had so little interest in the gods that he even felt it was silly to curse
them.

'You don't believe there is any sort of supernatural intelligence in
charge of the universe?' queried Marcellus, gazing up into the sky.

'I have no clear thought about that, sir,' replied Demetrius,
deliberately. 'It is difficult to account for the world without believing in
a Creator, but I do not want to think that the acts of men are inspired by
superhuman beings. It is better, I feel, to believe that men have devised
their brutish deeds without divine assistance.'

'I am inclined to agree with you, Demetrius. It would be a great comfort,
though, if—especially in an hour of bewilderment—one could
nourish a reasonable hope that a benevolent Power existed—
somewhere—and might be invoked.'

'Yes, sir,' conceded Demetrius, looking upward. 'The stars pursue an
orderly plan. I believe they are honest and sensible. I believe in the Tiber,
and in the mountains, and in the sheep and cattle and horses. If there are
gods in charge of them, such gods are honest and sound of mind. But if there
are gods on Mount Olympus, directing human affairs, they are vicious and
insane.' Apparently feeling that he had been talking too much, Demetrius
stiffened, drew himself erect, and gave the usual evidences that he was
preparing to get back on his leash. But Marcellus wasn't quite ready to let
him do so.

'Perhaps you think,' he persisted, 'that all humanity is crazy.'

'I would not know, sir,' replied Demetrius, very formally, pretending not
to have observed his master's sardonic grin.

'Well'—hectored Marcellus—'let's narrow it down to the Roman
Empire. Do you think the Roman Empire is an insane thing?'

It was clear to Marcellus that the philosophical discussion was ended. By
experience he had learned that once Demetrius resolved to crawl back into his
slave status, no amount of coaxing would hale him forth. They both stood
silently now, looking at the dark water swirling about the stern.

The Greek is right, thought Marcellus. That's what ails the Roman Empire:
it is mad! That's what ails the whole world of men. MAD! If there is any
Supreme Power in charge, He is MAD! The stars are honest and sensible. But
humanity is INSANE!... Click! Clack! Click! Clack!

After the tipsy little ship had staggered down past the
Lapari Islands in the foulest weather of the year, and had tacked gingerly
through the perilous Strait of Messina, a smooth sea and a favourable breeze
so eased Captain Manius's vigilance that he was available for a leisurely
chat.

'Tell me something about Minoa,' urged Marcellus, after Manius had talked
at considerable length about his many voyages: Ostia to Palermo and back,
Ostia to Crete, to Alexandria, to Joppa.

Manius laughed, down deep in his whiskers.

'You'll find, sir, that there is no such place as Minoa.' And when
Marcellus's stare invited an explanation, the swarthy navigator gave his
passenger a lesson in history, some little of which he already knew.

Fifty years ago, the legions of Augustus had laid siege to the ancient
city of Gaza, and had subdued it after a long and bitter campaign that had
cost more than the conquest was worth.

'It would have been cheaper,' observed Manius, 'to have paid the high toll
they demanded for travel on the salt trail.'

'But how about the Bedouins?' Marcellus wondered.

'Yes—and the Emperor could have bought off the Bedouins, too, for
less than that war cost. We lost twenty-three thousand men, taking Gaza.'

Manius went on with the story. Old Augustus had been beside himself with
rage over the stubborn resistance of the defence—composed of a
conglomeration of Egyptians, Syrians, and Jews, none of whom were a bit
squeamish at the sight of blood, who never took prisoners and were
notoriously ingenious in the arts of torture. Their attitude, he felt, in
wilfully defying the might of the Empire demanded that the old pest-hole Gaza
should be cleaned up. Henceforth, declared Augustus, it was to be known as
the Roman city of Minoa; and it was to be hoped that the inhabitants thereof,
rejoicing in the benefits conferred upon them by a civilized state, would
forget that there had ever been a municipality so dirty, unhealthy,
quarrelsome, and altogether nasty as Gaza.

'But Gaza,' continued Manius, 'had been Gaza for seventeen centuries, and
it would have taken more than an edict by Augustus to change its name.'

'Or its manners, either, I daresay,' commented Marcellus.

'Or its smell,' added Manius, dryly. 'You know, sir,' he went on, 'the
crusty white shore of that old Dead Sea is like a salt lick beside a
water-hole in the jungle where animals of all breeds and sizes gather and
fight. This has been going on longer than any nation's history can remember.
Occasionally some animal bigger than the others has appeared, driving all the
rest of them away. Sometimes they have turned on the big fellow and chased
him off, after which the little ones have gone to fighting again among
themselves. Well—that's Gaza for you!'

'But the salt lick,' put in Marcellus, 'is not at Gaza, but at the Dead
Sea.'

'Quite true,' agreed Manius, 'but you don't get to the Dead Sea for a lick
at the salt unless Gaza lets you. For a long time the lion of Judah kept all
the other animals away, after he had scared off the Philistine hyenas. Then
the big elephant Egypt frightened away the lion. Then Alexander the tiger
jumped on to the elephant. Always after a battle the little fellows would
come sneaking back, and claw the hides off one another while the big ones
were licking their wounds.'

'And what animal came after the tiger?' prodded Marcellus, though he knew
the answer.

'The Roman eagle,' replied Manius. 'Flocks and swarms of Roman eagles,
thinking to pick the bones; but there were plenty of survivors not ready to
have their bones picked. That,' he interrupted himself to remark, 'was how we
lost three-and-twenty thousand Romans—to get possession of the old salt
lick.'

'A most interesting story,' mused Marcellus, who had never heard it told
just that way.

'Yes,' nodded Manius, 'an interesting story; but the most curious part of
it is the effect that these long battles had upon the old city of Gaza. After
every invasion, a remnant of these foreign armies would remain; deserters and
men too badly crippled to travel home. They stayed in Gaza—a score of
different breeds—to continue their feuds.' The Captain shook his head
and made a wry face. 'Many will tell you of the constant quarrelling and
fighting in port cities such as Rhodes and Alexandria where there is a mixed
population composed of every known tint and tongue. Some say the worst
inferno on any coast of our sea is Joppa. But I'll vote for Gaza as the last
place in the world where a sane man would want to live.'

'Perhaps Rome should clean up Gaza again,' remarked Marcellus.

'Quite impossible! And what is true of old Gaza is equally true of all
that country, up as far as Damascus. The Emperor could send in all the
legions that Rome has under arms, and put on such a campaign of slaughter as
the world has never seen; but it wouldn't be a permanent victory. You can't
defeat a Syrian. And as for the Jews!—you can kill a Jew, and bury him,
but he'll climb out alive!' Noting Marcellus's amusement, Manius grinningly
elaborated, 'Yes, sir—he will climb right up the spade-handle and sell
you the rug he'd died in!'

'But,' queried Marcellus, anxious to know more about his own job, 'doesn't
our fort at Minoa—or Gaza, rather—keep order in the city?'

'Not at all! Hasn't anything to do with the city. Isn't located in the
city, but away to the east in a most desolate strip of desert sand, rocks,
and scratchy vegetation. You will find only about five hundred officers and
men—though the garrison is called a legion. They are there to make the
marauding Bedouins a bit cautious. Armed detachments from the fort go along
with the caravans, so that the brigands will not molest them. Oh,
occasionally'—Manius yawned widely—'not very often, a caravan
starts across and never comes back.'

'How often?' asked Marcellus, hoping the question would sound as if he
were just making conversation.

'Well, let's see,' mumbled Manius, squinting one eye shut and counting on
his battered fingers. 'I've heard of only four, this past year.'

'Only four,' repeated Marcellus, thoughtfully. 'I suppose that on these
occasions the detachment from the fort is captured too.'

'Of course.'

'And put into slavery, maybe?'

'No, not likely. The Bedouins don't need slaves; wouldn't be bothered with
them. Your Bedouin, sir, is a wild man; wild as a fox and sneaking as a
jackal. When he strikes, he slips up on you from the rear and lets you have
it between your shoulder blades.'

'But—doesn't the garrison avenge these murders?' exclaimed
Marcellus.

Manius shook his head and smiled crookedly.

'That garrison, sir, does not amount to much, if you'll excuse my saying
so. None of them care. They're poorly disciplined, poorly commanded, and
haven't the slightest interest in the fort. Every now and then they have a
mutiny and somebody gets killed. You can't expect much of a fort that sheds
most of its blood on the drill-ground.'

* * * * *

That night Marcellus felt he should confide his recent information to
Demetrius. In a quiet voice, as they lay in their adjacent bunks, he gave his
Corinthian a sketch of the conditions in which they were presently to find
themselves, speaking his thoughts as freely as if his slave were jointly
responsible for whatever policy might be pursued.

Demetrius had listened in silence throughout the dismaying recital, and
when Marcellus had concluded he ventured to remark laconically, 'My master
must command the fort.'

'Obviously!' responded Marcellus. 'That's what I am commissioned to do!
What else, indeed?' And as there was no immediate reply from the other bunk,
he added, testily, 'What do you mean?'

'I mean, sir, if the garrison is unruly and disorderly, my master will
exact obedience. It is not for his slave to suggest how this may be
accomplished; but it will be safer for my master if he takes full command of
the fort instantly—and firmly!'

Marcellus raised himself on one elbow and searched the Greek's eyes in the
gloom of the stuffy cabin.

'I see what you have in mind, Demetrius. Now that we know the temper of
this place, you think the new Legate should not bother about making himself
agreeable, but should swagger in and crack a few heads without waiting for
formal introductions.'

'Something like that,' approved Demetrius.

'Give them some strong medicine, eh? Is that your idea?'

'When one picks up a nettle, sir, one should not grasp it gently. Perhaps
these idle men would be pleased to obey a commander as well-favoured and
fearless as my master.'

Apparently unwilling to discuss that unhappy circumstance, but wanting to
support his end of the conversation, Demetrius said, 'Yes, sir,' so soberly
that Marcellus laughed. Afterwards there was such a long hiatus that it was
probable the Corinthian had dropped off to sleep, for the lazy roll of the
little ship was an urgent sedative. Marcellus lay awake for an hour,
consolidating the plan suggested by his shrewd and loyal Greek. Demetrius, he
reflected, is right. If I am to command this fort at all, I must command it
from the moment of my arrival. If they strike me down my exit will be at
least honourable.

* * * * *

It was well past mid-afternoon on the eighth day of March when Captain
Manius manoeuvred his unwieldly little tub through the busy roadstead of
Gaza, and warped her flank against a vacant wharf. His duties at the moment
were pressing, but he found time to say good-bye to the young Tribune with
something of the sombre solicitude of the next of kin bidding farewell to the
dying.

Demetrius had been among the early ones over the rail. After a while he
returned with five husky Syrians, to whom he pointed out the burdens to be
carried. There were no uniforms on the dirty wharf, but Marcellus was not
disappointed. He had not expected to be met. The garrison had not been
advised of his arrival. He would be obliged to appear at the fort
unheralded.

Gaza was in no hurry, probably because of her great age and many
infirmities. It was a full hour before enough pack-asses were found to carry
the baggage. Some more time was consumed in loading them. Another hour was
spent moving at tortoise speed through the narrow, rough-cobbled, filthy
streets, occasionally blocked by shrieking contestants for the right of
way.

The Syrians had divined the Tribune's destination when they saw his
uniform, and gave him a surly obedience. At length they were out on a busy,
dusty highway, Marcellus heading the procession on a venerable, half-shed
camel, led by the reeking Syrian with whom Demetrius—by
pantomime—had haggled over the price of the expedition. This bargaining
had amused Marcellus; for Demetrius, habitually quiet and reserved, had
shouted and gesticulated with the best of them. Knowing nothing about the
money of Gaza, or the rates for the service he sought, the Corinthian had
fiercely objected to the Syrian's first three proposals, and had finally come
to terms with savage mutters and scowls. It was difficult to recognize
Demetrius in this new rôle.

Far ahead, viewed through the billowing clouds of yellow dust, appeared an
immensely ugly twelve-acre square bounded by a high wall built of sun-baked
brick, its corners dignified by tall towers. As they drew nearer, a limp
Roman banner was identified, pendent from an oblique pole at the corner.

An indolent, untidy sentry detached himself from a villainous group of
unkempt legionaries squatting on the ground, slouched to the big gate, and
swung it open without challenging the party. Perhaps, thought Marcellus, the
lazy lout had mistaken their little parade for a caravan that wanted to be
convoyed. After they had filed through into the barren, sun-blistered
courtyard, another sentry ambled down the steps of the praetorium and stood
waiting until the Tribune's grunting camel had folded up her creaking joints.
Demetrius, who had brought up the rear of the procession, dismounted from his
donkey and marched forward to stand at his master's elbow. The sentry, whose
curiosity had been stirred by the sight of the Tribune's insignia, saluted
clumsily with a tarnished sword in a dirty hand.

'I am Tribune Marcellus Gallio!' The words were clipped and harsh. 'I am
commissioned to take command of this fort. Conduct me to the officer in
charge.'

'Centurion Paulus is not here, sir.'

'Where is he?'

'In the city, sir.'

'And when Centurion Paulus goes to the city, is there no one in
command?'

'Centurion Sextus, sir; but he is resting, and has given orders not to be
disturbed.'

Marcellus advanced a step and stared into the sulky eyes.

'I am not accustomed to waiting for men to finish their naps,' he growled.
'Obey me—instantly! And wash your dirty face before you let me see it
again! What is this—a Roman fort, or a pigsty?'

Blinking a little, the sentry backed away for a few steps; and, turning,
disappeared through the heavy doors. Marcellus strode heavily to and fro
before the entrance, his impatience mounting. After waiting for a few
moments, he marched up the steps, closely followed by Demetrius, and stalked
through the gloomy hall. Another sentry appeared.

'Conduct me to Centurion Sextus!' shouted Marcellus.

'By whose orders?' demanded the sentry, gruffly.

'By the orders of Tribune Marcellus Gallio, who has taken command of this
fort. Lead on—and be quick about it!'

At that moment a near-by door opened and a burly, bearded figure emerged
wearing an ill-conditioned uniform with a black eagle woven into the right
sleeve of his red tunic. Marcellus brushed the sentry aside and confronted
him.

'You are Centurion Sextus?' asked Marcellus; and when Sextus had nodded
dully, he went on, 'I am ordered by Prince Gaius to command this fort. Have
your men bring in my equipment.'

'Well—not so fast, not so fast,' drawled Sextus. 'Let's have a look
at that commission.'

'Certainly.' Marcellus handed him the scroll; and Sextus, lazily unrolling
it, held it close to his face in the waning light.

'I suggest, Centurion Sextus,' rasped Marcellus, 'that we repair to the
Legate's quarters for this examination. In the country of which I am a
citizen, there are certain courtesies—'.

Sextus grinned unpleasantly and shrugged.

'You're in Gaza now,' he remarked, half-contemptuously. 'In Gaza, you will
find, we do things the easy way, and are more patient than our better-dressed
equals in Rome. Incidentally,' added Sextus, dryly, as he led the way down
the hall, 'I too am a Roman citizen.'

'How long has Centurion Paulus been in command here?' asked Marcellus,
glancing about the large room into which Sextus had shown him.

'Since December. He took over temporarily, after the death of Legate
Vitelius.'

'What did Vitelius die of?'

'I don't know, sir.'

'Not of wounds, then,' guessed Marcellus.

'No, sir. He had been ailing. It was a fever.'

'It's a wonder you're not all sick,' observed Marcellus, dusting his
hands, distastefully. Turning to Demetrius he advised him to go out and stand
guard over their equipment until it was called for.

Sextus mumbled some instructions to the sentry, who drifted away.

'I'll show you the quarters you may occupy until Commander Paulus
returns,' he said, moving toward the door. Marcellus followed. The room into
which he was shown contained a bunk, a table, and two chairs. Otherwise it
was bare and grim as a prison cell. A door led into a smaller unfurnished
cubicle.

'Order another bunk for this kennel,' growled Marcellus. 'My slave will
sleep here.'

'Slaves do not sleep in the officers' row, sir,' replied Sextus,
firmly.

'My slave does!'

'But it's against orders, sir!'

'There are no orders at this fort—but mine!' barked Marcellus.

Sextus nodded his head, and a knowing grin twisted his shaggy lips as he
left the room.

* * * * *

It was a memorable evening at the fort. For years afterwards the story was
retold until it had the flavour of a legend.

Marcellus, accompanied by his orderly, had entered the big mess-hall to
find the junior officers seated. They did not rise, but there were no
evidences of hostility in the inquisitive glances they turned in his
direction as he made his way to the round table in the centre of the room. A
superficial survey of the surrounding tables informed Marcellus that he was
the youngest man present. Demetrius went directly to the kitchen to oversee
his master's service.

After a while, Centurion Paulus arrived, followed by Sextus who had
apparently waited to advise his chief of recent events. There was something
of a stir when they came striding across the room to the centre table. Sextus
mumbled an ungracious introduction. Marcellus rose and was ready to offer his
hand, but Paulus did not see it; merely bowed, drew out his chair, and sat.
He was not drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking. His lean
face, stubbly with a three-days' beard, was unhealthily ruddy; and his hands,
when he began to gobble his food, were shaky. They were also dirty. And yet,
in spite of his general appearance, Paulus bore marks of a discarded
refinement. This man, thought Marcellus, may have been somebody, once upon a
time.

'The new Legate, eh?' mumbled Paulus, with his mouth full. 'We have had no
word of his appointment. However'—he waved a negligent hand, and helped
himself to another large portion from the messy bowl of stewed meat—'we
can go into that later; to-morrow, perhaps.' For some minutes he wolfed his
rations, washing down the greasy meat with noisy gulps of a sharp native
wine.

Having finished, Paulus folded his hairy arms on the table and stared
insolently into the face of the young interloper. Marcellus met his cloudy
eyes steadily. Each knew that the other was taking his measure, not only as
to height and weight—in which dimensions they were approximately
matched, with Paulus a few pounds heavier, perhaps, and a few years
older—but, more particularly, appraising each other's timbre and
temper. Paulus grimaced unpleasantly.

'Important name—Gallio,' he remarked, with mock deference. 'Any
relation to the rich Senator?'

'My father,' replied Marcellus, coolly.

'Oh-oh!' chuckled Paulus. 'Then you must be one of these club-house
Tribunes'. He glanced about, as conversation at the adjoining tables was
suppressed. 'One would think Prince Gaius could have found a more attractive
post for the son of Senator Gallio,' he went on, raising his voice for the
benefit of the staff. 'By Jove, I have it!' he shouted hilariously, slapping
Sextus on the shoulder. 'The son of Marcus Lucan Gallio has been a bad boy!'
He turned again to Marcellus. 'I'll wager this is your first command,
Tribune.'

'It is,' replied Marcellus. The room was deathly still now.

'Never gave an order in your life, eh?' sneered Paulus.

Marcellus pushed back his chair and rose, conscious that three score of
interested eyes were studying his serious face.

'I am about to give an order now!' he said, steadily. 'Centurion Paulus,
you will stand and apologize for conduct unbecoming an officer!'

Paulus hooked an arm over the back of his chair, and grinned.

'You gave the wrong order, my boy,' he snarled. Then, as he watched
Marcellus deliberately unsheathing his broadsword, Paulus overturned his
chair as he sprang to his feet. Drawing his sword, he muttered, 'You'd better
put that down, youngster!'

'Clear the room!' commanded Marcellus.

There was no doubt in anyone's mind now as to the young Tribune's
intention. He and Paulus had gone into this business too far to retreat. The
tables were quickly pushed back against the wall. Chairs were dragged out of
the way. And the battle was on.

At the beginning of the engagement, it appeared to the audience that
Paulus had decided to make it a brief and decisive affair. His command of the
fort was insecurely held, for he was of erratic temper and dissolute habits.
Obviously he had resolved upon a quick conquest as an object-lesson to his
staff. As for the consequences, Paulus had little to lose. Communication with
Rome was slow. The tenure of a commander's office was unstable and brief.
Nobody in Rome cared much what happened in the fort at Minoa. True—it
was risky to kill the son of a Senator, but the staff would bear witness that
the Tribune had drawn first.

Paulus immediately forced the fight with flailing blows, any one of which
would have split his young adversary in twain had it landed elsewhere than on
Marcellus's parrying sword. Quite willing to be on the defensive for a while,
Marcellus allowed himself to be rushed backwards until they had almost
reached the end of the long mess-hall. The faces of the junior officers,
ranged around the wall, were tense. Demetrius stood with clenched fists and
anxious eyes as he saw his master being crowded back toward a corner.

Step by step, Paulus marched into his retreating antagonist, raining blow
after blow upon the defensive sword until, encouraged by his success, he saw
his quarry backing into a hopeless position. He laughed—as he decreased
the tempo of his strokes, assured now of his victory. But Marcellus believed
there was a note of anxiety in the tone of that guttural laugh; believed also
that the decreased fury of the blows was not due to the heavier man's
assurance, but because of a much more serious matter. Paulus was getting
tired. There was a strained look on his face as he raised his sword-arm. It
was probably beginning to ache. Paulus was out of training. Life at Minoa had
told on him. We take things easy in Gaza.

As they neared the critical corner, Paulus raised his arm woodenly to
strike a mighty blow; and, this time, Marcellus did not wait for it to
descend, but slashed his sword laterally so close to Paulus's throat that he
instinctively threw back his head, and the blow went wide. In that instant
Marcellus wheeled about quickly. It was Paulus now who was defending the
corner.

Marcellus did not violently press his advantage. Wearied by his
unaccustomed exercise, Paulus was breathing heavily and his contorted mouth
showed a mounting alarm. He had left off flailing now; and, changing his
tactics for a better strategy, seemed to be remembering his training. And he
was no mean swordsman, Marcellus discovered: at least, there had been a time,
no doubt, when Paulus might have given a good account of himself in the
arena.

Marcellus caught sight of Demetrius again, and noted that his slave's face
was eased of its strain. We were on familiar ground now, doing battle with
skill rather than brute strength. This was ever so much better. Up till this
moment, Marcellus had never been engaged in a duelling-match where his
adversary had tried to hew him down with a weapon handled as an axe is swung.
But Paulus was fighting like a Roman Centurion now, not like a common butcher
cleaving a beef.

For a brief period, while their swords rang with short, sharp, angry
clashes, Marcellus gradually advanced. Once, Paulus cast his eyes about to
see how much room was left to him; and Marcellus obligingly retreated a few
steps. It was quite clear to every watcher that he had voluntarily given
Paulus a better chance to take care of himself. There was a half-audible
ejaculation. This manoeuvre of the new Legate might not be in keeping with
the dulled spirit of Minoa, but it stirred a memory of the manner in which
brave men dealt with one another in Rome. The eyes of Demetrius shone with
pride. His master was indeed a thoroughbred. 'Eugenos!' he exclaimed.

But Paulus was in no mood to accept favours. He came along swiftly, with
as much audacity as if he had earned this more stable footing, and
endeavoured to force Marcellus into further retreat. But on that spot the
battle was permanently settled. Paulus tried everything he could recall,
dodging, crouching, feinting—and all the time growing more and more
fatigued. Now his guard was becoming sluggish and increasingly vulnerable.
Twice, the spectators noted, it would have been simple enough for the Tribune
to have ended the affair.

And now, with a deft manoeuvre, Marcellus brought the engagement to a
dramatic close. Studying his opportunity, he thrust the tip of his broadsword
into the hilt-housing of Paulus's wearied weapon, and tore it out of his
hand. It fell with a clatter to the stone floor. Then there was a moment of
absolute silence. Paulus stood waiting. His posture did him credit, all
thought; for, though his face showed the shock of this stunning surprise, it
was not the face of a coward. Paulus was decisively defeated, but he had
better stuff in him than any of them had supposed.

Marcellus stooped and picked up the fallen broadsword by its tip, drew
back his arm with the slow precision of a careful aim, and sent it swiftly,
turning end over end through the mess-hall, to the massive wooden door, where
it drove its weight deep into the timber with a resounding thud. Nobody broke
the stillness that followed. Marcellus then reversed his own sword in his
hand, again took a deliberate aim, and sent the heavy weapon hurtling through
the air towards the same target. It thudded deep into the door close beside
the sword of Paulus.

The two men faced each other silently. Then Marcellus spoke; firmly but
not arrogantly.

'Centurion Paulus,' he said, 'you will now apologize for conduct
unbecoming an officer.'

Paulus shifted his weight and drew a long breath; half-turned to face the
tightening ring of spectators; then straightened defiantly, folded his arms,
and sneered.

Marcellus deliberately drew his dagger from his belt, and stepped forward.
Paulus did not move.

'You had better defend yourself, Centurion,' warned Marcellus. 'You have a
dagger, have you not? I advise you to draw it!' He advanced another step.
'Because—if you do not obey my order—I intend to kill you!'

It was not easy for Paulus, but he managed to do it adequately. Demetrius
remarked afterwards that it was plain to be seen that Centurion Paulus was
not an accomplished orator, which Marcellus thought was a very droll
comment.

After Paulus had stammered through his glum impromptu speech, Marcellus
responded, 'Your apology is accepted, Centurion. Now perhaps there is
something else that you might think it timely to say to your fellow officers.
I have not yet been officially presented to them. As the retiring Commander,
it is, I feel, your right to extend this courtesy.'

Paulus fully found his voice this time, and his announcement was made in a
firm tone.

'I am introducing Tribune Marcellus Gallio, the Legate of this legion, and
Commander of this fort.'

There was a concerted clatter of swords drawn in salute—all but the
sword of paunchy old Sextus, who pretended to be adjusting his harness.

'Centurion Sextus!' called Marcellus, sharply. 'Bring me my sword!'

All eyes watched Sextus plod awkwardly over to the big door and tug the
sword out of the thick planking.

'Bring the sword of Centurion Paulus, also!' commanded Marcellus.

Sextus worked the second broadsword out of the timber, and came with heavy
feet and a dogged air. Marcellus took the heavy weapons, handed Paulus his,
and waited to receive Sextus's salute. The hint was taken without further
delay. Paulus also saluted before sheathing his sword.

'We will now finish our dinner,' said Marcellus, coolly. 'You will restore
the tables to their places. Breakfast will be served to the staff to-morrow
morning at five. All officers will be smooth-shaven. There will be an
inspection on the parade-ground at six, conducted by Lieutenant-Commander
Paulus. That will do.'

Paulus had asked, respectfully enough, to be excused as they returned to
their table, and Marcellus had given him permission to go. Sextus was
trailing along after him, without asking leave; and upon being sharply asked
if he had not forgotten something, mumbled that he had finished his
dinner.

'Then you will have time,' said Marcellus, 'to clear the Commander's
quarters, so that I may occupy those rooms to-night.'

Sextus acknowledged the order and tramped heavily to the door. Appetites
were not keen, but the staff made a show of finishing dinner. Marcellus
lingered at his table. At length, when he rose, they all stood in their
places. He bowed and left the room, followed by Demetrius. As they passed the
open door of the Commander's rooms, on their way to the quarters which had
been assigned them earlier, it was observed that a dozen slaves were busily
engaged in making the place ready for occupation.

After a few minutes, the men came and transferred their various gear to
the Commander's quarters. When they were alone, Marcellus sat down behind the
big desk. Demetrius stood at attention before him.

'I wish to say, sir, that I am much honoured to be the slave of the
Commander of Minoa.'

'Thanks, Demetrius,' smiled Marcellus, wearily. 'We will have to
wait—and see—who commands Minoa. This is a tough undertaking. The
preliminary skirmish was satisfactory, but—making peace is always more
difficult than making war.'

For the next few days the nerves of the legion were tense. The new Legate
had demonstrated his determination to be in full authority, but it was by no
means clear whether that authority would be maintained on any other terms
than a relentless coercion.

Paulus had suffered a severe loss of prestige, but his influence was still
to be reckoned with. He was obeying orders respectfully, but with such grim
taciturnity that no one was able to guess what was going on in his mind.
Whether he was not yet fully convalescent from the wounds dealt to his pride,
or was sullenly deliberating some overt act of revenge, remained to be seen.
Marcellus had formed no clear opinion about this. Demetrius planted his bunk
directly inside the door, every night, and slept with his dagger in his
hand.

After a week, the tension began to relax a little as the garrison became
accustomed to the new discipline. Marcellus issued crisp orders and insisted
upon absolute obedience; not the sluggish compliance that had been good
enough for Gaza, but a prompt and vigorous response that marched with clipped
steps and made no tarrying to ask foolish questions or offer lame
excuses.

It had seemed wise to the new Commander to let his more personal relations
with the staff develop naturally without too much cultivation. He showed no
favouritism, preserved his official dignity, and in his dealings with his
fellow officers wasted no words. He was just, considerate, and approachable,
but very firm. Presently the whole organization was feeling the effect of the
tighter regulations, but without apparent resentment. The men marched with a
fresh vigour and seemed to take pride in keeping their equipment in order.
The appearance and morale of the officers had vastly improved.

Every morning, Paulus, now second in command, came to the office of
Marcellus for instructions. Not a word had passed between them relative to
their dramatic introduction. Their conversations were conducted with icy
formality and the stiffest kind of official courtesy. Paulus, faultlessly
dressed, would appear at the door and ask to see the Commander. The sentry
would convey the request. The Commander would instruct the sentry to admit
the Centurion. Paulus would enter and stand straight as an arrow before the
official desk. Salutes would be exchanged.

'It is necessary to replace six camels, sir.'

'Why?' Marcellus would snap.

'One is lame. Two are sick. Three are too old for service.'

'Replace them!'

'Yes, sir.'

Then Paulus would salute and stalk out. Sometimes Marcellus wondered
whether this frosty relationship was to continue for ever. He hoped not. He
was feeling lonely in the remote altitude to which he had climbed in order to
maintain discipline. Paulus was, he felt, an excellent fellow; embittered by
this exile, and morally disintegrated by the boredom and futility of his
desert life. Marcellus had resolved that if Paulus showed the slightest
inclination to be friendly, he would meet the overture halfway; but not a
step farther. Nor would he take the initiative.

As for Sextus, Marcellus had very little direct contact with him, for
Sextus received his orders through Paulus. The big, gruff fellow had been
punctilious in his obedience, but very glum. At the mess-table he had nothing
to say; ate his rations with a scowl, and asked to be excused.

One evening, after ten days had passed, Marcellus noticed that Sextus's
chair was vacant.

Marcellus immediately rose and left the table. After a moment, Paulus
followed and overtook him on the way to Sextus's quarters. They fell into
step, and marched side by side with long strides.

'Bad break?'

'Clean break. Upper leg. Not much mangled.'

Sextus was stretched out on his back, beads of sweat on his forehead. He
glanced up and made an awkward gesture of greeting.

'Much pain?' inquired Marcellus.

'No, sir.' Sextus gritted his teeth.

'Gallant liar!' snapped Marcellus. 'Typical Roman lie! You wouldn't admit
you were in pain if you'd been chopped to mincemeat! That bunk is bad; sags
like a hammock. We will find a better one. Have you had your dinner?'

Sextus shook his head; said he didn't want anything to eat.

'Well—we'll see about that!' said Marcellus, gruffly.

By inspection hour next morning, the story had spread through the acres of
brown tents that the new Commander—who had had them all on the jump and
had strutted about through the camp with long legs and a dark frown—had
gone to the kitchen of the officers' mess and had concocted a nourishing
broth for old Sextus; had moved him to airier quarters; had supervised the
making of a special bed for him.

That day Marcellus became the Commander of the fort at Minoa. That night
Demetrius did not take his dagger to bed with him; he didn't even bother to
lock the door.

* * * * *

The next morning, Paulus pushed the sentry aside at the Commander's
quarters and entered without more ceremony than a casual salute. Marcellus
pointed to a vacant chair and Paulus accepted it.

'Hot day, Centurion Paulus,' remarked Marcellus.

'Gaza does not believe in pleasant weather, sir. The climate suits the
temper of the people. It's either hot or cold.' Paulus tipped back his chair
and thrust his thumbs under his belt. 'The Jews have an important festival,
sir. They observe it for a week when the moon is full in the month they call
Nisan. Perhaps you know about it.'

'No, never heard of it,' admitted Marcellus. 'Is it any of our
business?'

'The Jews never forget anything, sir. Every year at this season, all the
Jews who can possibly get there go to Jerusalem to "eat the Passover," as
their saying is; but most of them are quite as much interested in family
reunions, games, sports, auctions, and all manner of shows. Caravans of
merchandise come from afar to market their wares. Thousands crowd the city
and camp in the surrounding hills. It is a lively spectacle, sir.'

'You have been there, it seems.'

'On each of the eleven years since I was sent to this fort, sir,' nodded
Paulus. 'The Procurator in Jerusalem—I think you know that his office
outranks all of the other Palestinian establishments—expects
detachments from the forts at Capernaum, Cæsarea, Joppa, and Minoa to come
and help keep order.'

'An unruly crowd, then?' surmised Marcellus.

'Not very, sir. But always, when so many Jews assemble, there is the usual
talk of revolution. They wail sad chants and prattle about their lost
heritage. So far as I know, this unrest has never amounted to anything more
alarming than a few street brawls. But the Procurator thinks it is a good
thing, on these occasions, to have a conspicuous display of Roman
uniforms—and a bit of drill-work in the vicinity of the Temple.' Paulus
chuckled, reminiscently.

'Do we get a formal notice?'

'No, sir. The Procurator does not trouble himself to send a courier. He
takes it for granted that a detachment from Minoa will attend.'

'Very well, Paulus. How many men do we send, and when do they go?'

'A company, sir; a full hundred. It is a three-day journey. We should
start the day after to-morrow.'

'You may arrange for it then, Paulus. Would you like to command the
detachment, or have you had enough of it!'

'Enough of it! By no means, sir! This expedition is the only bright event
of the year! And if I may venture to suggest, Tribune, you yourself might
find this a most refreshing diversion.'

'On your recommendation, I shall go. What is the nature of the
equipment?'

'It is not very burdensome, sir. Because it is a gala occasion, we carry
our best uniforms. You will be proud of your command, I think; for it is a
reward of merit here to be chosen for this duty, and the men are diligent in
polishing their weapons. Otherwise we pack nothing but provisions for tenting
and meals on the way. We are housed in commodious barracks in Jerusalem, and
the food is of an uncommonly fine quality, furnished by certain rich men of
the city.'

'What?' Marcellus screwed up his face in surprise. 'Do they not resent
Roman rule in Jerusalem?'

Paulus laughed ironically.

'It is the common people who feel the weight of the Roman yoke, sir. As
for the rich, many of whom collect the tribute for Tiberius—and keep a
quarter of it for themselves—they are quite content. Oh, publicly, of
course, the nabobs have to make a show of lamenting the loss of their
kingdom; but these fat old merchants and money-lenders would be quite upset
if a real revolution got started. You will find that the city fathers and the
Procurator are thick as thieves, though they pretend to be at odds.'

'But this is amazing, Paulus! I had always supposed that the Jews were
passionately patriotic, and uncompromising in their bitter hatred of the
Empire.'

'That is quite true, sir, of the common people. Very zealous, indeed! They
keep hoping for their old independence. Doubtless you have heard of their
ancient myth about a Messiah.'

'No. What's a Messiah?'

'The Messiah is their deliverer, sir. According to their prophets, he will
appear, one day, and organize the people to achieve their freedom.'

'I never heard of it,' admitted Marcellus, indifferently. 'But small
wonder. I haven't had much interest in religious superstitions.'

'Nor I!' protested Paulus. 'But one hears a good deal about this Messiah
business during Passover Week.' He laughed at the recollection. 'Why, sir,
you should see them! Sleek, paunchy old fellows, swathed from their whiskers
to their sandals in voluminous black robes, stalking through the streets,
with their heads thrown back and their eyes closed, beating their breasts and
bleating about their lost kingdom and bellowing for their Messiah! Pouf! They
don't want any other kingdom than the one that stuffs their wallets and their
bellies. They don't want a Messiah—and if they thought there was the
slightest likelihood of a revolution against Roman domination they would be
the first to stamp it out.'

'They must be a precious lot of hypocrites!' growled Marcellus.

'Yes, sir,' agreed Paulus, 'but they set a fine table!'

For a little while, the Tribune sat silently shaking his head in glum
disgust.

'I know the world is full of rascality, Paulus, but this beats anything I
ever heard of!'

'It is rather sickening, sir,' conceded Paulus. 'The sight that always
makes me want to slip a knife under one of those pious arms, upraised in
prayer, is the long procession of the poor and sick and blind and crippled
trailing along after one of these villainous old frauds, under the impression
that their holy cause is in good hands.' He interrupted himself to lean over
the arm of his chair for a better view of the doorway, and caught sight of
Demetrius standing in the hall within sound of their voices. Marcellus's eyes
followed.

'My Greek slave keeps his own counsel, Centurion,' he said, in a
confidential tone. 'You need not fear that he will betray any private
conversation.'

'What I was going to say, sir,' continued Paulus, lowering his voice,
'this political situation in Jerusalem, revolting as it sounds, is not
unusual.' He leaned halfway across the desk, and went on in a guarded
whisper, 'Commander, that's what holds the Empire together! If it were not
for the rich men in all our subjugated provinces—men whose avarice is
greater than their local patriotism—the Roman Empire would
collapse!'

'Steady, Paulus!' warned Marcellus. 'That's a dangerous theory to expound!
You might get into trouble—saying such things.'

Paulus stiffened with sudden wrath.

'Trouble!' he snarled, bitterly. 'I did get into trouble, sir, that way! I
was fool enough to be honest in the presence of Germanicus! That,' he added,
only half audibly, 'was how I—a Legate—earned my passage to Minoa
to become a Centurion! But, by the gods, what I said was true! The Roman
Empire was consolidated, and is now supported, by the treachery of rich
provincials, willing to betray their own people! This strategy is not
original with us, of course! Rome learned the trick from Alexander. He
learned it from the Persians, who had learned it in Egypt. Buy up the big men
of a little country and—pouf!—you can have the rest of them for
nothing!' Paulus's face was flushed with anger, and after his seditious
speech he sat with clenched hands, flexing the muscles of his jaw. Then he
faced Marcellus squarely, and muttered, 'Valour of Rome! Bah! I spit on the
valour of Rome! Valour of treachery! Valour of gold! Valour of hurling the
poor at one another on the battlefield, while the big ones are off in a
corner selling them out! The great and proud Roman Empire!' Paulus brought
his fist down with a bang on the desk. 'I spit on the Roman Empire!'

'You are very indiscreet, Paulus,' said Marcellus, seriously. 'For remarks
of that sort, you could have your pelt pulled off. I hope you do not often
let yourself go like that.'

'It is a wonder, Paulus,' he said, thoughtfully, 'that the ordinary rank
and file do not take things into their own hands.'

'Pouf! What can they do?' scoffed Paulus, with a shrug. 'They're nothing
but sheep, with no shepherd! Take these Jews, for example: now and then, some
fiery fellow goes howling mad over the raw injustice, and gets up on a cart,
and lets out a few shrieks—but they dispose of him in a hurry!'

'Who shuts him up? The rich men?'

'Well, not directly. It is we who are always called in to do the dirty
work. It's obvious that Rome can't permit such uprisings, but it is the rich
and greedy provincials who nip revolutions in the bud.'

'Damned scoundrels!' exclaimed Marcellus.

'Yes, sir,' assented Paulus, his gusty storm having blown out, 'but you
will find that these damned scoundrels in Jerusalem know good wine when they
see it, and aren't mean about sharing it with the Roman legions. That,' he
added, with cool mockery, 'is to encourage us to be on the look-out for any
foolhardy patriot who squeaks about the lost kingdom!'

The first day's journey, from Gaza to Ascalon, was
intolerably tedious, for the deep-rutted highway was crowded with creeping
caravans and filthy with dust.

'It will be better to-morrow promised Melas, amused by the grotesque
appearance of Demetrius who had rewound his turban about his face until only
his eyes were visible.

'Let us hope so!' grumbled the Corinthian, tugging at the lead-donkey that
was setting off toward a clump of thistles. 'But how will it be better? These
snails are all crawling to Jerusalem, are they not?'

'Yes, but we leave the highway at Ascalon,' explained Melas, 'and lake a
shorter road through the hills. The caravans do not travel it. They're afraid
of the Bedouins.'

'And we aren't?'

'We're too many for them. They wouldn't risk it.'

Centurion Paulus's stocky, bow-legged, red-headed Thracian was enjoying
himself. Not often was Melas in a position to inform his betters; and,
observing that the status of Demetrius was enviable compared to his own, it
had made him quite expansive to be on such friendly terms with the new
Legate's well-spoken slave.

'It isn't the camels that stir up the dust,' advised Melas, out of his
long experience. 'Your camel lifts his big padded paws and lays them down on
top of the soft dirt. It's the asses that drag their feet. But I hate
camels!'

'I am not very well acquainted with camels,' admitted Demetrius, willing
to show some interest in his education.

'Nobody is,' declared Melas. 'You can live with a camel for years and
treat him as your brother, but you can never trust him. See that? He tapped a
badly disfigured nose. 'I got that up in Gaul, a dozen years ago. The fleas
and flies were driving my master's old Menepthah crazy. I spent the better
part of two days rubbing olive oil into his mangy hide. And he stood like a
rock, and purred like a cat; because he liked it. When I was tired out, he
turned around and kicked me in the face.'

Demetrius laughed, as was expected, and inquired what sort of revenge
Melas had considered appropriate, a query that delighted him, for there was
more of the story.

'I was so blind mad,' continued Melas, 'that I did the same thing to
him—only Menepthah saw it coming and grabbed my foot. Ever have a camel
bite you? Now, an ass,' he expounded, 'or a dog, will snap and nip and nibble
at you; but if he is going to bite, he tells you. Your camel never lets you
into the secret. When he bites, nobody knows what is in his mind—but
himself. I was laid up for two weeks, the time Menepthah bit my foot. I don't
like camels,' he added, reasonably enough, his new friend thought.

'They can't be blamed much for wanting to get even,' observed Demetrius.
'It's a pretty rough life, I suppose.'

Melas seemed to be weighing this bland comment on his not very sensitive
scales as they trudged along, and presently gave Demetrius a long, appraising
look out of the tail of his eye. His lip curled in a sour grin. At length he
ventured to give his thoughts an airing; having a care, however, to keep them
on a leash.

'It doesn't do much good—trying to get even. Take your slave, now;
he can't get anywhere that way. Camels and asses and slaves are better off
minding their masters.' And when Demetrius did not comment, Melas added,
encouragingly, 'Or—don't you think so?'

Demetrius nodded, without interest. He had no desire to discuss this
matter.

'If you're going to serve another man, at all,' he remarked casually,
'it's only good sense to serve him well.'

'That's what I always say,' approved Melas, with such exaggerated
innocence that Demetrius wondered whether the fellow was making a smug
pretence of lily-white loyalty—or recklessly toying with a piece of
crude irony. He thought it might be interesting to find out.

'Of course, slavery is a bit different from the employment of freedmen,'
experimented Demetrius. 'If a freedman finds his work distasteful he can
leave it, which is ever so much better than keeping on at it, and shirking
it. The slave does not have this choice.'

Melas chuckled a little.

'Some slaves,' he remarked, 'are like asses. They snap at their masters,
and get slapped for it. They sit down and balk, and get themselves whipped
and kicked. There's no sense in that. And then there are some slaves that
behave like camels; just keep going on, and taking it, no matter how they're
used'—Melas's tone was getting noticeably metallic, to match his heavy
scowl—'and one day—when the master is drunk, maybe—the poor
beast pays him out.'

'And then what?' demanded Demetrius.

Melas shrugged, sullenly.

'Then he'd better run away,' he concluded. Presently he muttered an
afterthought. 'Not much chance for a camel. Once in a while a slave gets
away. Three years ago—' Melas lowered his voice, though there was no
need of this precaution as they were far at the rear of the procession, and
the furtive quality of the Thracian's tone hinted at a conspiratorial
confidence. 'It was on this same trip—three years ago. Commander
Vitelius's slave, as cheerful and obedient as anybody you ever
met—Sevenus, by name—managed to lose himself the next to the last
day in Jerusalem. Nobody knows what became of him.' Melas stepped nearer and
muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 'Nobody but me. Sevenus left for
Damascus. Wanted me to go with him. Sometimes I've wished I had taken the
chance. It's easy enough. We're more or less on our own in Jerusalem. The
officers give themselves a good time. Don't want the slaves hanging about.
Bad for discipline.' Melas winked significantly. 'The Centurions like to play
a little.'

Demetrius listened without comment to this lengthy speech; and Melas, a
bit anxious, searched his eyes for advice as to the safety of proceeding
farther.

'Of course, it's no secret,' he proclaimed, doffing his air of mystery.
'Everybody at Minoa knows about it—all but what I just told you.'

Demetrius knew he was making a mistake when he asked the question that
implied a personal interest in this matter, but the story had stirred his
curiosity.

'What made this fellow Sevenus think he had a chance of freedom in
Damascus?'

Melas's eyes relighted.

'Why, Damascus is Syrian. Those people up there hate Rome like poison! The
old city's full of Roman slaves, they say; living right out in the open, too;
making no attempt to hide. Once you get there, you're safe as a bug in a
donkey's ear.'

* * * * *

Early next morning, their caravan broke camp and moved off through the
bare hills over a winding road which narrowed frequently, in long ravines and
deep waddies, to a mere bridle-path that ravelled out yesterday's compact
pilgrimage into a single thread.

It was a desolate country, practically uninhabited. Small herds of wild
goats, almost indistinguishable from the jagged brown rocks on the treeless
hillsides, grouped to stare an absurd defiance of any attempted trespass upon
their domain. In the valleys, the spring rains had fraudulently invited an
occasional tuft of vegetation to believe it had a chance of survival. Beside
a blistered water-hole a brave little clump of violets drooped with
thirst.

Demetrius was finding pleasure in this stage of the journey. The landscape
was uninspiring, but it refreshed his spirit to be out in the open and at a
comfortable distance from the uncouth Melas, whose favourite topic had become
disquieting. There was little doubt but the Thracian was building up toward a
proposal of escape; either that, or was harbouring an even more sinister
design to engage him in a conspiracy and then expose him. Of course, this
suspicion might be quite unfair to the fellow; but it would be dangerous to
take any risks. No matter what he himself might say to Melas, on this touchy
matter, it could easily become a weapon in the garrulous Thracian's hand, if
he happened to be upset about something or made envious of the unusual
privileges accorded to the Commander's more fortunate slave. Demetrius had
resolved to be painstakingly prudent in any conversation with Melas, and as
much as possible avoid being alone with him. Besides, there was much to think
about, left over from a discussion between Marcellus and Paulus, last night;
a most provocative—and highly amusing—survey of the gods,
conducted by two men who had no piety at all. A good deal of it had been
shockingly irreverent, but undeniably entertaining.

Late yesterday afternoon, when the company had halted near a spring (on
city property, a mile north-east of Ascalon) Demetrius had been happy to
receive a summons to attend his master, for he had begun to feel lonely and
degraded. He was amazed at the smart appearance of the camp. Almost by magic
the brown tents had risen in four precise rows, the commissary had unpacked
and set up its field equipment, chairs and tables and bunks had been unfolded
and put in order. Banners were flying. Sentries were posted. The local Roman
representative—a seedy, unprepossessing old fellow, with the bright
pink nose of a seasoned winebibber—accompanied by three obsequious
Jewish merchants, came out to read and present an illuminated scroll which
eloquently (and untruthfully) certified to Ascalon's delight that the famed
Legion of Minoa had deigned to accept the city's poor but cheerful
hospitality. They had brought with them four huge wineskins bulging with the
best of the native product, and were invited to remain for supper, after the
Commander had formally replied (with his staff ranged stiffly to the rear of
him) that Minoa was fully as glad to be in Ascalon as Ascalon was to
entertain Minoa, which his slave considered deliciously droll.

After the evening meal had been disposed of, and his immediate duties
performed, Demetrius had stretched out on the ground in the shadow of the
Commander's tent—a quite imposing tent, larger than the others, trimmed
with red flouncing, red silk curtains at the entrance and a canopy over the
doorway supported by slanting spear-shafts. With his fingers interlaced
behind his head, Demetrius lay gazing up at the stars, marvelling at their
uncommon brightness, and effortlessly listening to the subdued voices of his
master and Paulus, lounging in camp-chairs under the gaudy canopy. Apparently
the visitation of the local dignitaries, who had now left for home, accounted
for the conversation. Paulus was holding forth with the leisurely drawl of an
amateur philosopher—benign, tolerant, and a little bit tight. Demetrius
cocked an ear. Occasionally, in such circumstances, a man imprudently spoke
his honest convictions about something; and, if Paulus had any convictions,
it might be interesting to learn what they were.

'The Jews,' Paulus was saying, 'are a queer people. They admit it
themselves; brag about it, in fact; there are no other people like them in
the world. For one thing, they're under a special divine protection. Their
god, Jehovah—they have only one, you know—isn't interested in
anybody else but the Jews. Of course, there would be nothing positively
immoral about that belief, if it weren't for the fact that their Jehovah
created the world and all its inhabitants, but has no use for any of the
other people; says the Jews are his children. Presumably the rest of the
world can look out for itself. If they'd just admit that Jehovah was a sort
of local deity—'

'Oh, but we do the same thing, Paulus, don't we?' rejoined Marcellus.
'Isn't Jupiter a sort of general superintendent of the universe, with
unlimited jurisdiction?'

'Not at all; not at all, sir,' protested Paulus, lazily. 'Jupiter hasn't
any interest in the Egyptians, but he doesn't claim he made them what they
are, and then despise them for being no better. And he never said that the
Syrians are a lousy lot, for not lighting bonfires on his feast-day. And
Jupiter never said he was going to see that the Romans had the best of
it—all the time.'

'Did Jehovah say that to the Jews?'

Demetrius laughed silently. He had suspected that Marcellus wasn't very
well informed about the various religions, but his master's almost complete
ignorance on the subject was ludicrous.

'Why, certainly!' Paulus was orating. 'Started them off in a garden where
he had grown a fruit they were forbidden to eat. Of course they ate it, not
to satisfy their hunger but their curiosity.'

'One would think Jehovah might have been delighted over their curiosity,'
put in Marcellus, 'seeing that every good thing we have was discovered
through someone's inquisitiveness.'

'Yes, but this made Jehovah angry,' explained Paulus, 'so he pitched them
out into the desert, and let them get tricked into slavery. Then he told them
how to escape, and turned them loose in a wilderness. Then he promised them a
land of their own—'

'And this is it!' laughed Marcellus. 'What a promised land!'

'There isn't a more worthless strip of country in the world!' declared
Paulus. 'And now the Jews have lost control of it. You'd think that after
about fifteen hundred years of hard knocks, poverty, and slavery, these
specially favoured children of Jehovah would begin to wonder whether they
might not be better off without so much divine attention.'

'Perhaps that accounts for this Messiah business that you spoke about the
other day. Maybe they've given up hope that Jehovah will take care of them,
and think the Messiah might improve their fortunes when he comes. Do you
suppose that's what they have in mind? It's not unreasonable. I daresay
that's the way we and the Greeks accumulated so many gods, Paulus. When one
god gets weary and impotent, another fresher god takes over. Didn't old Zeus
retire once in favour of his son Apollo?'

'Not for long,' remembered Paulus. 'Apparently the weather hadn't been
very good, so young Apollo decided he would manage the sun; and ran amuck
with it. Old Zeus had to straighten out the tangle for the boy. Now, there's
sense in a religion like that, Tribune. Our gods behave the way we do,
naturally, because we made them the way we are. Everybody gets tired of the
dictatorial old man, and eventually he gets tired too; decides to let his son
run the business—whether it's growing gourds or managing the planets;
but he never thinks the young fellow is competent, so he keeps on interfering
until presently there is a row. That's why our religion is such a comfort to
us,' Paulus continued, elaborately ironical.

'I'm afraid you're not very pious,' commented Marcellus. 'If the gods hear
what you are saying, they may not like it. They might think you doubted their
reality.'

'Not at all, sir! It's men like me who really believe in their reality.
They're authentic—the gods! Some of them want war, some want peace,
some of them don't know what they want—except an annual feast-day and a
big parade. Some give you rest and sleep, some drive you insane. Some you are
expected to admire, and some you are expected to hate, and all of them are
never quite happy unless they are frightening you and assured that you are
afraid. This is sensible. This is the way life is!... But these Jews! There
they are, with only one god; and he is perpetually right, perpetually good,
wise, loving. Of course he is stubborn, because they are stubborn; doesn't
approve of pleasure, because they never learned how to play; never makes any
mistakes, because the Jew never makes any mistakes. Tribune, Jehovah can't
help being a pessimist. The Jews are a pessimistic people.'

'Maybe Jehovah thinks it is a good thing for his children to endure
hardship,' speculated Marcellus; 'toughens their fibre, knocks off their
surplus fat, keeps them in fighting trim. I believe he has a good idea there,
Paulus. Sometimes I've thought that Rome would be better off if we patricians
had to scratch for a living, and stole less from the neighbours.'

There was a considerable pause at this point in the sacrilegious
discussion and Demetrius had wondered whether they hadn't about exhausted
themselves and their subject. But not quite.

'Rome will have that problem solved for her, one of these days,' Paulus
was muttering, ominously. 'The sceptre is passed around, Commander. Egypt has
her day in the sunshine. Darius tramps about, scaring everybody for an hour
or two. Alexander sobs because there's no one left to be subdued. The Cæsars
drive their chariots over Alexander's world; so drunk with power that they
can't even bear to let these poor Hebrews own a few acres of weeds and
snakes.... Ho-hum!'

Demetrius had yawned, too, and wished they would go to bed.

'But it will be somebody else's turn, soon,' said Paulus.

'When?' asked Marcellus, exactly as Demetrius thought he might.

'Well, if justice were served to crazy old Tiberius and his addled
stepchild,' deliberated Paulus, 'I should think it might be someone else's
turn to-morrow—or by the end of next week, at the least.... How about a
little more wine, Tribune?'

Demetrius had sat up, ready for the summons. It came instantly, and he
presented himself.

'Fill Centurion Paulus's cup,' ordered Marcellus. 'No, none for me.'

And then Demetrius had gone back into the shadow of the tent to resume his
waiting. The conversation had taken a queer turn now.

'Paulus,' his master was saying, 'you believe that the gods are
manufactured by men. If it isn't an impertinent question, did you ever try to
make one?'

Demetrius, sauntering to-day along through a narrow ravine, almost
oblivious of the long procession single-filing on ahead, laughed as he
recalled that extraordinary question and its absurd answer.

'No,' Paulus had replied, 'but it isn't too late. Shall I make one for you
now?'

'By all means!' chuckled Marcellus. 'I assume that when you have him
completed he will closely resemble yourself.'

'Well—not too closely; for this god I'm going to invent is good. He
doesn't just pretend to be good. He really is good! He takes a few bright men
into his confidence—not necessarily Romans or Greeks or Gauls; so long
as they're honest and intelligent—and entrusts them with some important
tasks. He tells one man how to cure leprosy, and others how to restore sight
to the blind and hearing to the deaf. He confides the secrets of light and
fire; how to store up summer heat for use in winter; how to capture the light
of day and save it to illumine the night; how to pour idle lakes on to arid
land.' Paulus had paused, probably to take another drink.

'Very good, Centurion,' Marcellus had commented, thoughtfully. 'If you'll
set up your god somewhere, and get him to producing these effects, he can
have all my trade.'

'Perhaps you might like to assist in his creation, sir,' suggested Paulus,
companionably.

Demetrius had not expected the quite serious speech that followed. As it
proceeded, he raised himself on one elbow and listened intently.

'It occurs to me, Paulus,' Marcellus was saying, soberly, 'that this god
of yours, who seems a very fine fellow indeed, might well consider a revision
of the present plan for removing men from this world. What happens to us is
something like this: a man spends his active life striving to accomplish a
few useful deeds, and eventually arrives at the top of his powers;
honoured—we will say—and a good example to his community. Then he
begins to go into a decline; loses his teeth and his hair; his step slows,
his eyes grow dim, his hearing is dulled. This disintegration frets him, and
he becomes gusty and irascible, like an old dog. Now he retires to a sunny
corner of the garden with a woollen cap and a rug around his legs, and sits
there in everybody's way until it is time for him to take to his bed, with
grievous aches and pains which twist him into revolting postures. When no
dignity is left to him, nor any longer deserved, he opens his sunken mouth
and snores for a few days, unaware of his inglorious end. Now, I think your
new god should do something about this, Paulus.'

'We will discuss it with him, sir,' promised Paulus, agreeably. 'How would
you like to have the matter handled?'

Apparently this required some concentration, for the reply was delayed a
little while. When it came, Marcellus's tone had abandoned all trace of
persiflage and was deeply sincere.

'When a Roman of our sort comes of age, Paulus, there is an impressive
ceremony by which we are inducted into manhood. Doubtless you felt, as I did,
that this was one of the high moments of life. Well do I remember—the
thrill of it abides with me still—how all our relatives and friends
assembled, that day, in the stately Forum Julium. My father made an address,
welcoming me into Roman citizenship. It was as if I had never lived until
that hour. I was so deeply stirred, Paulus, that my eyes swam with tears. And
then good old Cornelius Capito made a speech, a very serious one, about
Rome's right to my loyalty, my courage, and my strength. I knew that tough
old Capito had a right to talk of such matters, and I was proud that he was
there! They beckoned to me, and I stepped forward. Capito and my father put
the white toga on me—and life had begun!'

There was an interval of silence here. Demetrius, much moved by this
recital, had strained to hear above his own accented heart-beats, for the
reminiscence had been spoken in a tone so low that it was almost as if
Marcellus were talking to himself.

'Now, I think your god should ordain that at the crowning moment of a
mature man's career; at the apex; when his strength has reached its zenith;
when his best contribution has been made; let your god ordain that another
assembly be held, with all present who know and revere this worthy man. And
who among us would not strive to be worthy, with such a consummation in
prospect? Let there be a great assembly of the people. Let there be an
accounting of this man's deeds; and, if he has earned a lofty eulogy, let it
be spoken with eloquence.'

'And then?' demanded Paulus. 'A valedictory, perhaps?'

'No,' Marcellus had decided, after a pause. 'Let the man keep silent. He
will have no need to explain his deeds, if they were worth emulation. He will
arise, and his peers will remove his toga; and it will be treasured, perhaps
conferred upon another, some day, for courageous action. It would be a great
responsibility to wear such a garment, Paulus.' There was another long
pause.

'I think the god should prescribe that this event occur in the waning of a
golden afternoon in springtime. There should be a great chorus, singing an
elegiac ode. And while the triumphant music fills the air—with the vast
assembly standing reverently—let the honoured man march erectly and
with firm step from the rostrum, and out, to face the sunset! Then—let
him vanish! And be seen no more!'

After he had gone to bed, last night, and the camp was quiet, except for
the footfalls and jangling side-arms of the sentries, Demetrius had pondered
long and deeply over this strange conceit—the making of a better
god!

This morning, as he marched through the barren hills, towing a file of
stupid donkeys who had as much control over their destiny as had he over his
own, Demetrius wondered what he might have said if they had invited him to
add a desirable attribute to their imaginary deity. Doubtless the world would
be a more comfortable place to live in if, as Paulus had suggested, some plan
were arrived at for a better distribution of light and heat. And perhaps it
would bring a man's days to a more dramatic conclusion if, as his master had
so beautifully visioned, the human career might close with music and
pageantry instead of a tedious glissade into helpless senility; though, as
things stood, a man's lack of honour at the end of his life seemed quite
compatible with his absurd plight at life's beginning. If Marcellus proposed
to add dignity to a man's departure from the world, he should also pray for a
more dignified arrival.

No, such idle speculations were a mere waste of opportunity if one had a
chance to mend the world. There were other needs of far greater import.
Surely, this amazingly honest deity whom Marcellus and Paulus had invoked
would want to do something about the cruel injustice of men in their dealings
one with another. With hot indignation, Demetrius reconstructed the painful
scene of that day when Roman ruffians forced the doors, and threw his
beautiful mother aside as they stalked into his honoured father's library to
bind him and carry him away to his death.

This nobler god—if he had any interest in justice, at
all—would appear, at such a tragic moment, and sternly declare, 'You
can't DO that!'

Demetrius repeated the words aloud—over and over—louder and
louder—until the high-walled ravine believed in them, and said so.

'YOU CAN'T DO THAT!' he shouted, so loudly that Melas—far on
ahead—turned to look back inquiringly.

* * * * *

They had all but reached the end of their journey now. For the past hour
their caravan had been plodding up a long hill. At its crest, a very
impressive spectacle had confronted them. They were gazing down upon
Jerusalem, whose turrets and domes were aglow with the smouldering fire of
sunset.

'Gorgeous!' Marcellus had murmured.

All day, Demetrius had marched beside his master's tall camel, happy to be
relieved of his unpleasant duties at the rear. Early in the forenoon, they
had come to the junction of the lonely valley road and a highway running up
from Hebron. All along the thoroughfare were encampments of caravans, making
no sign of preparation for travel.

'Is this not strange, Paulus?' Marcellus had inquired. 'Why aren't they on
the road?'

'It's the Sabbath day, sir,' answered Paulus. 'Jews must not travel on the
last day of the week. It's against their law.'

'Mustn't move at all, eh?'

'Oh, practically not. They may proceed a little way—what they call a
Sabbath day's journey—two thousand cubits. Look, sir.' Paulus pointed
down the road. 'Two thousand of their cubits would take them to that group of
olive trees. That's as far as a Jew can go from his residence on the
Sabbath.'

'Very inconvenient,' observed Marcellus, idly.

'For the poor people—yes.' Paulus laughed. 'The rich, as usual, have
their own way of circumventing the law.'

'How's that?'

'Well, sir; in their interpretation of this statute, any place where a man
has a possession is considered his residence. If a rich man wants to visit
somebody ten miles away, on the Sabbath, he sends his servants on ahead, a
day earlier, and they deposit along the road—at two-thousand-cubit
intervals—such trifling articles as an old sandal, a cracked pot, a
worn-out rug, a scroll-spool; and thus prepare the way for their law-abiding
lord.'

'Do you mean that—seriously?' inquired Marcellus.

'Yes—and so do they. I tell you, sir, these rich Jews will go to
more bother about the external appearance of their religion than any people
on earth. And they do it with straight faces, too. It is a great mistake to
be playful with them about it. They've deceived themselves so long that they
really think they're honest. Of course,' he added, dryly, 'the opulent Jew
has no monopoly in self-deception. All our rich and influential men, whatever
their race or country, are subject to this unhappy malady. It must be a
tragic condition to possess great wealth and a sensitive conscience. I never
thought much about this before,' he rambled on, 'but I doubt not the sophists
could prove self-deception to rate high among the cardinal virtues. None but
the noble would heap upon himself so much sham and shame in the cause of
righteousness.'

'Paulus, you're a cynic—and an uncommonly bitter one,' drawled
Marcellus. 'By the way—what must these people along the roadside think
of our disregard of their holy Sabbath?'

'Pouf! They expect nothing better of us. And I'm not sure they'd like it
if we rested all day in honour of their beliefs. In their opinion, we could
defile their religion worse by recognizing it than by ignoring it. They don't
want anything from us—not even our respect. They can't be blamed, of
course,' Paulus added. 'No man should be asked to think highly of a master
who has robbed him of his liberty.'

Demetrius had turned his face away at that speech, pretending an interest
in a tented caravan resting on a neighbouring slope. He wondered whether his
master thought this remark of the Centurion's was injudicious; wondered
whether he wished his slave had not overheard it.

* * * * *

Early the next morning, the militia from Minoa broke camp and prepared to
complete the journey into the city. Demetrius had been glad to see the
sunrise. It was the first night, since he had been the slave of Marcellus,
that he had slept beyond the sound of his master's call. After the encampment
had been made, late yesterday afternoon, the Legate and four of the senior
staff officers had decided to ride on into Jerusalem. None of the slaves,
except the Syrian camel-boys, had gone with them. Demetrius, left to guard
Marcellus's effects, had slept in the ornate tent alone.

Rousing at dawn, he had drawn the curtains aside, and was amazed at the
tide of traffic already on the highway; processions of heavily laden camels,
rhythmically lifting their haughty noses at every step; long trains of
pack-asses, weighted with clumsy burdens; men, women, children,
slaves—all carrying bundles and baskets and boxes of every shape and
size. The pestilential dust rolled high.

With the speed and skill of long experience, the contingent from Minoa
levelled their camp, rolled up the tents, packed the stores, and took to the
road. Proudly the uniformed company marched down the highway, the pilgrims
scurrying to the stone fences at the trumpet's strident command. But the
pack-train did not fare so well. The laden asses from Minoa, not carrying
banners or blowing trumpets or wearing the Roman uniform, were considered by
the travellers as of no more importance than a similar number of pack-asses
from anywhere else.

Melas, ever anxious to display large knowledge to the newcomer, seemed
highly amused by Demetrius's efforts to keep his string of donkeys in hand.
It was quite apparent that the unkempt Thracian was enjoying the Corinthian's
dilemma. At a disadvantage in Demetrius's company, the odds were all in his
favour now. He wasn't as cultured as the Legate's slave, but when it came to
managing pack-asses in a dense crowd of uncivil travellers, Melas was in a
position to offer counsel. He looked back and grinned patronizingly.

It was a peculiar crowd! In Rome, on a feast-day, there was plenty of
rough jostling and all manner of rudeness. Arrogant charioteers thought
nothing of driving their broad iron wheels over the bare feet of little
children. People on foot treated one another with almost incredible
discourtesy. One favourite method of making one's way through a crowd was to
dive in with both hands full of mud and filth scooped up from the street. Few
cared to debate the right of way with persons thus armed. No, Rome had won no
prizes for the politeness of her gala-day multitudes. But, in spite of her
forthright brutality, Rome, on such occasions, was hilarious. Her crowds
sang, cheered, laughed! They were mischievous, merciless, vulgar—but
they were merry!

There was no laughter in this pilgrim throng that crowded the widening
avenue to-day. This was a tense, impassioned, fanatical multitude; its voice
a guttural murmur as if each man hid his own distresses, indifferent to the
mumbled yearnings of his neighbours. On these strained faces was an
expression of an almost terrifying earnestness and a quality of pietistic
zeal that seemed to burst forth into wild hysteria; faces that fascinated
Demetrius by the very ugliness of their unabashed contortions. Not for all
the wealth of the world would he have so bared his private griefs and
longings to the cool stare of the public. But apparently the Jews didn't care
who read their minds. All this, thought the Corinthian, was what the sight of
their holy city had done to their emotions.

Suddenly, for no reason at all that Demetrius could observe, there was a
wave of excitement. It swept down over the sluggish swollen stream of zealots
like a sharp breeze. Men all about him were breaking loose from their
families, tossing their packs into the arms of their overburdened children,
and racing forward toward some urgent attraction. Far up ahead the shouts
were increasing in volume, spontaneously organizing into a concerted
reiterated cry; a single, magic word that drove the multitude into a
frenzy.

Unable to keep his footing in this onrushing tide, Demetrius dragged and
pushed his stubborn charges to the roadside where Melas stood savagely
battering his tangled donkeys over their heads with his heavy cudgel.

'Crack them on the nose!' yelled Melas.

'I have no club,' shouted Demetrius. 'You take them!'

Melas, pleased to have his competence appealed to, grasped the lead-strap
to the other string of donkeys and began laying on the discipline with a
practised hand. While he was thus engaged, Demetrius set off after the
hurrying crowd, forcing his way with the others until the congestion was too
dense for further progress. Wedged tight against his arm, and grinning up
into his face, was another Greek, older but smaller than himself; a slave,
easily recognizable as such by the slit in his ear-lobe. Impudently the
ill-scented little fellow bent about for a glimpse of Demetrius's ear; and,
having assured himself of their social equality, laughed fraternally.

'Athens,' he announced, by way of introduction.

'Corinth,' returned Demetrius, crisply. 'Do you know what is going
on?'

'They're yelling something about a king. That's all I can make of it.'

'Understand their language?'

'A little. Just what I've picked up on these trips. We come up every year
with a load of spices.'

'You think they've got somebody up in front who wants to be their king? Is
that it?'

'Looks like it. They keep howling another word that I don't know—
Messiah. The man's name, maybe.'

Demetrius impulsively turned about, thrust a shoulder into the streaming
mass, and began pushing through to the side of the road, followed
closely—to his distaste—by his diminutive countryman. All along
the way, men were recklessly tearing branches from the palms that bordered
the residential thoroughfare, indifferent to the violent protests of
property-owners. Running swiftly among the half-crazed vandals, the two
Greeks arrived at the front of the procession and jammed their way into
it.

Standing on tiptoe for an instant in the swaying crowd, Demetrius caught a
fleeting glimpse of the obvious centre of interest, a brown-haired,
bareheaded, well-favoured Jew. A tight little circle had been left open for
the slow advance of the shaggy white donkey on which he rode. It instantly
occurred to Demetrius that this coronation project was an impromptu affair
for which no preparation had been made. Certainly there had been no effort to
bedeck the pretender with any royal regalia. He was clad in a simple brown
mantle with no decorations of any kind, and the handful of men—his
intimate friends, no doubt—who tried to shield him from the pressure of
the throng wore the commonest sort of country garb.

The huzzas of the crowd were deafening. It was evident that these
passionate zealots had all gone stark, raving mad! Paulus had drawn a very
clear picture of the Jew's mood on these occasions of the holy festival
commemorative of an ancient flight from bondage.

Again Demetrius, regaining his lost balance, stretched to full height for
another look at the man who had somehow evoked all this wild adulation. It
was difficult to believe that this was the sort of person who could be
expected to inflame a mob into some audacious action. Instead of receiving
the applause with an air of triumph—or even of satisfaction—the
unresponsive man on the white donkey seemed sad about the whole affair. He
looked as if he would gladly have had none of it.

'Can you see him?' called the little Athenian, who had stuck fast in the
sticky-hot pack an arm's length away.

Demetrius nodded without turning his head.

'Old man?'

'No, not very,' answered Demetrius, candidly remote.

'What does he look like?' shouted the Athenian, impatiently.

Demetrius shook his head—and his hand, too—signalling that he
couldn't be bothered now, especially with questions as hard to answer as this
one.

'Look like a king?' yelled the little Greek, guffawing boisterously.

Demetrius did not reply. Tugging at his impounded garments, he crushed his
way forward. The surging mass, pushing hard from the rear, now carried him on
until he was borne almost into the very hub of the procession that edged
along, step by step, keeping pace with the plodding donkey.

Conspicuous in the inner circle, as if they constituted the mysterious
man's retinue, were the dozen or more who seemed stunned by the event that
obviously had taken them by surprise. They too were shouting, erratically,
but they were puzzled faces, and appeared anxious that their honoured friend
would play up a little more heroically to the demands of this great
occasion.

It was clear now to Demetrius that the incident was accidental. It was
quite understandable, in the light of Paulus's irreverent comments on the
Passover celebration. All these proud, poverty-cursed, subjugated pilgrims,
pressing toward their ancient shrine, would be on the alert for any movement
that savoured of revolt against their rapacious foe. It needed only the
shout, 'Messiah!', and they would spring into action without pausing to ask
questions. That explained it all, believed Demetrius. In any case, whoever
had started this wild pandemonium, it was apparent that it lacked the hero's
approbation.

The face of the enigmatic Jew seemed weighted with an almost insupportable
burden of anxiety. The eyes, narrowed as if in resigned acceptance of some
inevitable catastrophe, stared straight ahead toward Jerusalem. Perhaps the
man, intent upon larger responsibilities far removed from this pitiable
little coronation farce, wasn't really hearing the racket at all.

So deeply absorbed had Demetrius become, in his wide-eyed study of the
young Jew's face, that he too was beginning to be unmindful of the general
clamour and confusion. He moved along with creeping steps, slanting his body
against the weight of the pressing crowd, so close now to the preoccupied
rider that with one stride he could have touched him.

Now there was a temporary blocking of the way, and the noisy procession
came to a complete stop. The man on the white donkey straightened, as if
roused from a reverie, sighed deeply, and slowly turned his head. Demetrius
watched, with parted lips and a pounding heart.

The meditative eyes, drifting about over the excited multitude, seemed to
carry a sort of wistful compassion for these helpless victims of an
aggression for which they thought he had a remedy. Everyone was shouting,
shouting—all but the Corinthian slave, whose throat was so dry he
couldn't have shouted, who had no inclination to shout, who wished they would
all be quiet, quiet! It wasn't the time or place for shouting. Quiet! This
man wasn't the sort of person one shouted at, or shouted for. Quiet! That was
what this moment called for—Quiet!

Gradually the brooding eyes moved over the crowd until they came to rest
on the strained, bewildered face of Demetrius. Perhaps, he wondered, the
man's gaze halted there because he alone—in all this welter of
hysteria—refrained from shouting. His silence singled him out. The eyes
calmly appraised Demetrius. They neither widened nor smiled; but, in some
indefinable manner, they held Demetrius in a grip so firm it was almost a
physical compulsion. The message they communicated was something other than
sympathy, something more vital than friendly concern; a sort of stabilizing
power that swept away all such negations as slavery, poverty, or any other
afflicting circumstance. Demetrius was suffused with the glow of this curious
kinship. Blind with sudden tears, he elbowed through the throng and reached
the roadside. The uncouth Athenian, bursting with curiosity, inopportunely
accosted him.

After the camp had been set up near the suburban village of
Bethany, Marcellus and his staff continued down the long hill into the city.
There was very little traffic on the streets, for the people were keeping the
Sabbath.

Though Paulus had not exaggerated Jerusalem's provision for the
representatives of her Roman Emperor, the young Legate of Minoa was not
prepared for his first sight of the majestic Insula of the Procurator.

As they halted their weary camels at twilight before the imposing façade
of Rome's provincial seat, Marcellus sat in speechless admiration. No one
needed to inform a stranger that this massive structure was of foreign
origin, for it fairly shouted that it had no relation whatever to its mean
environment.

Apparently the architects, sculptors, and landscape artists had been
advised that expense was the least of their problems. Seeing the Jews had to
pay for it, explained Paulus, the Emperor had not been parsimonious, and when
Herod, the first Procurator, had professed a grandiose ambition 'to rebuild
this brick city in marble,' Augustus had told him to go as far as he
liked.

'And you can see that he did,' added Paulus, with an inclusive gesture
made as proudly as if he had done it himself.

True, Jerusalem wasn't all marble. The greater part of it was decidedly
shabby, dirty, and in need of repair. But Herod the Great had rebuilt the
Temple on a magnificent scale and then had erected this Insula on a
commanding elevation far enough away from the holy precincts to avoid any
unhappy competition.

It was a huge quadrangle stronghold, dominating the very heart of
Jerusalem. Three spacious levels of finely wrought mosaic pavement, united by
marble steps and balustrades with pedestals bearing the exquisitely
sculptured busts of eminent Romans, terraced up from the avenue to the
colonnaded portal of the Praetorium. On either side of the paved area sloped
an exotic garden of flowers and ornamental shrubbery, watered from marble
basins in which lavish fountains played.

'These fountains,' said Paulus, in a discreet undertone, 'were an
afterthought. They were installed only seven years ago, when Pilate came. And
they caused an uprising that brought all the available troops to the new
Procurator's rescue.'

'Were you in it, too, Paulus?' asked Marcellus.

'Indeed, yes! We were all here, and a merry time it was. The Jew has his
little imperfections, but he is no coward. He whines when he trades, but he
is no whimperer in battle. He hates war and will go to any length to preserve
the peace; but—and this was something Pontius Pilate didn't
know—there is a point where you'd better stop imposing on a Jew.'

'Well, go on then about the fountains,' urged Marcellus, for the sight of
the water had made him impatient for a bath.

'Pilate's wife was responsible for it. They had been down in Crete for
many years where Pontius had been the Prefect. You can grow anything in
Crete, and the lady was dismayed to find herself in such an arid country as
Judea. She begged for gardens. Gardens must have water. To have so much water
there must be an aqueduct. Aqueducts are expensive. There was no allowance to
cover this item. So—the new Procurator helped himself to some funds
from the Temple treasury, and—'

'And the battle was on,' surmised Marcellus.

'You have said it, sir,' declared Paulus, fervently. 'And it stayed on for
seven exciting months. Pilate nearly lost his post. Two thousand Jews were
killed, and nearly half that many Romans. It would have been better, I
suppose, if Tiberius had transferred Pilate to another position. The Jews
will never respect him, not if he stays here for a thousand years. He makes
every effort to humour them, remembering what they can do to him if they
wish. He is here to keep the peace. And he knows that the next time there is
a riot, his term of office will expire.'

'It's a wonder the Jews do not raise a general clamour for his removal,'
speculated Marcellus.

'Ah, but they don't want him removed,' laughed Paulus. 'These rich and
wily old merchants and money-lenders, who pay the bulk of the taxes and
exercise a great deal of influence, know that Pilate is not in a position to
dictate harsh terms to them. They hate him, of course, but they wouldn't like
to see him go. I'll wager that if the Emperor appointed another man to the
office of Procurator, the Sanhedrin would protest.'

'What's the Sanhedrin?' inquired Marcellus.

'The Jewish legislative body. It isn't supposed to deal with any matters
except religious observances; but—well—when the Sanhedrin growls,
Pontius Pilate listens!' Paulus shouted to the squatting camel-boys, and the
apathetic beasts plodded on. 'But I do not wish to convey the idea, sir,'
continued the Centurion, 'that Pilate is a nobody. He is in a very
unfortunate predicament here. You will like him, I think. He is a genial
fellow, and deserves a more comfortable Prefecture.'

They had moved on then, around the corner, to the section of the vast
barracks assigned to the garrison from Minoa. Three sides of the great
quadrangle had been equipped for the accommodation of troops, the local
constabulary occupying less than a third of it. Now the entire structure was
filled almost to capacity. The whole institution was alive. The immense
parade-ground, bounded by the two-storey stone buildings, was gay with the
uniforms of the legions arriving from the subordinate Palestinian forts. The
banners of Cæsarea, Joppa, and Capernaum, topped by the imperial ensign,
added bright colour to the teeming courtyard.

Marcellus was delighted with the appointments of the suite into which he
was shown. They compared favourably with the comforts to be had at the
Tribunes' Club in Rome. It was the first time he had been entirely at ease
since the night he had left home.

After a while Paulus came in to see if his young Commander had everything
he wanted.

'I am writing some letters,' he said. 'The Vestris should arrive at Joppa
by to-morrow or next day, and will probably sail for home before the end of
the week. You remember, sir, she was just coming into the harbour at Gaza as
we passed through.'

'Thanks, Paulus, for reminding me,' said Marcellus. 'It is a good
suggestion.'

* * * * *

He had not written to Diana since the night of his departure on the galley
to Ostia. That had been a difficult letter to compose. He was very deeply
depressed. After several unsatisfactory attempts to tell her how sorry he was
to leave her and with what impatience he would await their next
meeting—in the face of his serious doubt that he should ever see her
again—his letter had turned out to be a fond little note of farewell,
containing neither fatuous promises nor grim forebodings. The lovely Diana
would be cherished in his thoughts, he wrote, and she was not to worry about
him.

Many times on the long voyage to Gaza, he had begun letters that were
never finished. There was so little to say. He would wait until there was
something of interest to report. On the last day before making port, he had
written a letter to his family, dry as the little ship's log, promising to do
better next time.

The early days at Minoa had been eventful enough to furnish material for a
letter, but his new duties had kept him occupied. To-night he would write to
Diana. He could tell her honestly that things were ever so much better than
he had expected. He would explain how he happened to be in Jerusalem. He
would tell her that he was handsomely quartered, and describe the
appointments of the Insula. It would need no gilding. Marcellus's dignity,
sadly battered by the punitive assignment to discredited Minoa, had been
immeasurably restored. He was almost proud of his Roman citizenship. He could
write Diana now with some self-confidence.

For two hours, under the light of the three large stone lamps bracketed on
the wall beside his desk, he reviewed the important events of his life at
Minoa. He didn't say how arid, how desolate, how altogether unlovely was the
old fort and its environs; nor did he exhaust the details of his first day's
experience there.

'The acting Commander,' he wrote, 'was a bit inclined to be surly, and did
not overdo his hospitality when I arrived; but a little later he decided to
co-operate, and we are now the best of friends. I quite like this Centurion
Paulus. Indeed I hardly know what I should do without him, for he knows all
the traditions of the fort; what things must be done, and the right time and
way to do them.'

Marcellus was enjoying his work on the letter. It gave him a glow of
pleasure to inform Diana of these things which now made up his life. It was
almost as if they belonged to each other; almost as an absent husband might
write to his wife.

The scroll, when he should paste the sheets of papyrus end to end, would
be a bulky one. Before it quite outgrew its spindle-rims, he must bring it to
a close with something from his heart. This was not quite so easy to do.

For a long time he sat deliberating what should be his proper attitude.
Should he obey his feelings and tell Diana, without reserve, how much she had
been in his thoughts, how dear she was to him, and how ardently he wished
their separation was over? Would that be fair? Diana was young, so full of
life. Was it right to encourage her in the hope that he might be coming home
some day to claim her? Was it right to let Diana believe that he entertained
that hope himself? Might it not be more honest to tell her frankly that there
was no likelihood of his return for a long time, years, perhaps? Of course,
Diana already knew the circumstances. And he had casually mentioned of Paulus
that he had been sent to Minoa eleven years ago; and had not been home since
his appointment. She could draw her own dismaying conclusions. At length,
Marcellus finished his letter almost to his satisfaction.

'You know, Diana, what things I would be saying to you if we were
together. At the far distance which separates us—in miles, and who can
tell how much of time?—it is enough to say that your happiness will
always be mine. Whatever things make you sad, dear girl, sadden me also. A
ship, the Vestris, is reported to be arriving at Joppa. She called at Gaza. I
am impatient to return to the fort, for I may find a letter from you there. I
fondly hope so. Demetrius will come in tomorrow morning and deliver this
scroll to the Insula's courier who meets the Vestris. She sails soon. Would I
were a passenger!'

* * * * *

Demetrius had never been so restless. Of course, whenever he had paused to
contemplate his hopeless position in the scheme of things, his life held out
no promise. But gradually he had become inured to his fate. He was a slave,
and nothing could be done about it. Comparing himself to a free man, his lot
was wretched indeed; but when he contrasted the terms of his slavery with the
cruel conditions imposed upon most of the people in bondage, he was
fortunate.

In the house of Gallio, he had been treated with every consideration due
to a servant. And his life had become so inextricably related to the life of
Marcellus that his freedom—even if it were offered him—might cost
him more in companionship than it was worth in liberty of action. As for his
deep affection for Lucia, it was, he knew, wholly unrequited. He couldn't
have had Lucia, if he had been as free as a sea-gull. Such common-sense
reflections as these had saved his mind and reconciled him to his
destiny.

Now his bland little philosophy had ceased to comfort him. Not only was
his small world in disarray, but the whole institution of human existence had
become utterly futile, meaningless, empty, a mere mockery of something that
had had sublime possibilities, perhaps, but had been thrown away; lost beyond
recovery!

He had tried to analyse his topsy-turvy mind and find reasons for his
heavy depression. For one thing, he was lonely. Marcellus had not wilfully
ignored him since their arrival in Jerusalem, but it was apparent that slaves
were not welcome in the officers' quarters except when actually on duty. When
their service was performed, they were to clear out. Demetrius had not been
accustomed to such treatment. He had been his master's shadow for so long
that this new attitude of indifference was as painful as a physical
wound.

Again and again he said to himself that Marcellus probably felt unhappy
too, and maybe deplored the necessity to exclude him from his friendship.
Demetrius had been made to feel his slavery as he had never felt it before,
not since the day that he had been sold to Senator Gallio.

But there was another cause for Demetrius's mental distress. It was the
haunting memory of the beseeching eyes into which he had gazed momentarily on
the road into the city. Afterwards, he had sat for hours, in a brown study,
trying to define those eyes, and had arrived at the conclusion that they were
chiefly distinguished by their loneliness. It was so apparent that the little
group of men, who had tried to keep the crowd from pressing too hard, were
disappointed. Whatever it was that the noisy fanatics wanted him to do, it
was the wrong thing. You could see that, at a glance. It was a wonder they
couldn't see it themselves. Everybody there had urged him to lead a cause in
which—it was so obvious!—he had no interest. He was a lonely man.
The eyes hungered for an understanding friend. And the loneliness of this
mysterious man had somehow communicated with the loneliness of Demetrius. It
was a loneliness that plainly said, 'You could all do something about this
unhappy world, if you would; but you won't.'

Three days had passed now, singularly alike in plan. Melas had been almost
too attentive in his capacity of uninvited guide to the sights of the city.
It was inevitable that they should be thrown into each other's company. Their
duties were light and briefly accomplished. As Melas had foreseen, you looked
after your master at mealtime, polished his equipment, helped him into his
complicated military harness in the morning and out of it at night. The rest
of the time was yours.

Breakfast was served at dawn, after which the troops turned out on the
parade-ground for routine inspection. Then a small detachment of each
contingent returned to their respective barracks to be on call while the main
bodies—commanded by junior officers and led by the larger, but no more
splendidly accoutred, Legion of the Procurator—marched smartly into the
street.

It was a stirring sight and Demetrius, his tasks completed for the
morning, liked to watch the impressive parade as, four abreast, the gaily
uniformed soldiers strutted around the corner, stood like statues while the
colours were dipped before the proud portals of the Praetorium, and proceeded
down the avenue to the Temple, passing in their march the pretentious marble
residence of Caiaphas, the High Priest. Caiaphas was not honoured with a
salute; neither was the Temple.

On two occasions Demetrius, attended by Melas as voluntary commentator,
trailed along at the rear of the procession. On an equivalent occasion in
Rome, hundreds would have followed such a parade; but not here. Perhaps the
people were too sullen, perhaps they hated Rome too much. Perhaps, again,
they lacked the vitality to pick up their heels and keep pace with the long
steps of the soldiers. Demetrius had seen plenty of rags and tatters and
blind beggars and hopeless cripples, but never in such numbers or in such
dire distress. His own native Corinth had its share of misery, but its
wretchedness was on display mostly in the port area. Athens—he had been
there once with his father and brothers when he was twelve—had plenty
of poverty, but it also had beautiful parks and exquisite works of art. This
Jerusalem—that called itself a holy city—was horrible; its
streets crowded with disease and deformities, and verminous mendicants. Other
cities had their faults; hateful ones, too. But Jerusalem? Not much wonder
the strange man on the white donkey had been lonely!

The return of the troops to the Insula was made by a circuitous route
which bisected the centre of the market district where hucksters and
customers scrambled to give the legionaries plenty of room as they went
striding arrogantly down the narrow street, their manner saying that Emperor
Tiberius mustn't be detained even at the cost of a few trampled toes. If a
recumbent camel, indifferent to the dignity of the Empire, remained seated in
the middle of the road, Rome did not debate the right of way, but opened the
formation and pretended that the sullen beast was an island. Occasionally a
balky pack-ass was similarly deferred to by the armed forces of Tiberius.
Everybody else sought the protection of doorways and alleys.

This rambling route included the Roman Consulates, a not very imposing
group of official residences, where brief pauses were made to salute the
imperial arms rather than the imperial representatives of Samaria, Decapolis,
and Galilee.

And it was funny. Herod, who handled Rome's diplomatic dealings with
Galilee, which were reputed to be trivial and infrequent, had made himself
very well-to-do, but the homage paid to his establishment was perfunctory
enough to constitute a downright insult.

'I've heard them say,' Melas had explained, 'that this Herod fellow would
like to be the Procurator. That's why Pilate's Legion begins the salute with
the thumb to the nose. Maybe that's orders: I don't know.'

Back at the parade-ground, the companies were dismissed for the day. By
twos and threes the men swaggered down into the congested business zone,
capitalizing the privileges of their resplendent garb and glittering weapons,
rejoicing alike in the shy admiration of the olive-tinted girls and the
candid hatred of the merchants whose wares they impudently pawed and
pilfered.

In the afternoon, the majority of the troops strolled out to the small
arena, south of the city, and watched the games—footraces,
discus-hurling, javelin-throwing, wrestling—tame sports, but better
than none. No gladiatorial combats were permitted, nor any other amusing
bloodshed. Immediately outside the arena, but within its compound, every
conceivable type of imposture flourished. Many of the mountebanks were from
far distances. There were magicians from India, pygmies from Africa, Syrian
fortune-tellers. Patently crooked gambling wheels and other games of chance
beguiled many a hard-earned shekel. Innumerable booths dispensed lukewarm,
sickeningly sweet beverages of doubtful origin, flyblown figs, and dirty
confections.

To the Romans, accustomed at home to more exciting events on their festal
days, the arena and its accessories had but little charm. To the country
people, it was a stupendous show, especially for the younger ones. Most of
their elders, mightily concerned with the sale of pottery, rugs, shawls,
assorted homespun, sandals, saddles, bracelets, bangles, and ornamental
trifles in leather, wood, and silver, remained downtown in the thick of
serious trade.

As for Marcellus and his staff, and the ranking officers of the other
garrisons, their chief diversion—apart from lounging in the
baths—was gambling. After the first day, spent in making ceremonious
calls upon the Procurator and the Consuls, and a little sight-seeing, the
staff members idled in their sumptuous quarters.

There seemed to be an unlimited supply of wine, and it was apparent that
the officers were making abundant use of it. On two occasions, Centurion
Paulus had not appeared at the evening dinner, and many another place was
vacant at the well-provided tables in the ornate mess-hall. Demetrius had
been pleased to note that his master was exercising a little more discretion
than some of the others, but it was evident that he too was relieving his
boredom by the only available method. It was to be hoped that the week could
be brought to an end without a row. The materials for quarrels were all at
hand; the wine, the dice, the idleness. It had never taken very much liquor
to make Marcellus reckless. Paulus, when drunk, was surly and sensitive.
Demetrius had begun to count the hours until it would be time to take to the
road. Minoa had its disadvantages, but it was a safer and more attractive
place than Jerusalem.

He wished he could find out what had become of the man who didn't want to
be king of this country. One day he had broached the subject to the Thracian;
but Melas, who knew everything, knew nothing about this; had quite forgotten
the little furor on the hill.

'The patrol probably scared him back to the country,' surmised Melas.

'Perhaps they put him in prison,' wondered Demetrius.

'He'd be lucky,' laughed Melas. 'Men who gather up big crowds around them
are better off in jail, this week, than on the street.'

'Do you know where the prison is?' Demetrius had inquired, suddenly
inspired with an idea.

Melas gave him a quizzical glance. No, he didn't know where the prison was
and didn't want to know. Prisons were fine places to stay away from. Any man
was a fool to visit a friend in prison. First thing you knew, they'd gobble
you up, too. No, sir! Melas had had enough of prisons to last him the rest of
his life.

One afternoon (it was their fourth day in Jerusalem) Demetrius went out
alone over the road on which they had come into the city, and on up the long
hill until he reached the place where he had seen the lonely man with the
beseeching eyes. He easily recognized the spot: there were dusty and broken
palm branches scattered along the roadside, poor shreds of a brief and
doubtful glory.

Retracing his steps slowly to the brow of the hill, he turned aside into a
public park, where well-worn paths wound through a grove of ancient olive
trees, gnarled and twisted as if they had shared with the hapless Jews a
long, stubborn withstanding of persecution. He sat there in the shade for an
hour looking down over Jerusalem. You'd think a city thirty-five centuries
old would have a little more to show for its experience. For that matter, the
whole world seemed incapable of learning anything useful. Jerusalem wanted
her freedom. What would she do with freedom if she had it? Everybody in the
world wanted more freedom; freedom to do, and be, what?

Suppose (it was inconceivable), but suppose the Jews contrived to drive
the Romans out? Then what? Would they leave off quarrelling among themselves,
and forget their old party differences, and work together for the good of
their country? Would the rich landlords and money-lenders treat the poor more
leniently? If they disposed of the Romans, would they feed the hungry and
care for the sick and clean the streets? Why, they could do all that now, if
they wished. The Romans wouldn't stop them. The Romans would be glad enough
to see such improvements, for some of them had to live there too.

What was the nature of this bondage that Jerusalem so bitterly resented?
That noisy pack of fanatics on the road, the other day, thought their trouble
was with the Roman Government. If they could find a leader strong enough to
free them from Rome, they would set up a kingdom of their own. That, they
seemed to think, would make everything right. But would it? How would a
revolution help the mass of the people? Once a new Government was in the
saddle, a small group of greedy men would promptly impose upon the public.
Maybe this lonely man from the country knew that. This tatterdemalion throng
wanted him to be their king, wanted him to live at the Insula, instead of
Pilate. Then the few, who had helped him into power, would begin to make
themselves great. But Jerusalem would continue to be what she was now. A
change of masters wouldn't help the people.

Demetrius rose and sauntered back to the main thoroughfare, surprised to
see that so few travellers were on the road. It still lacked two hours of
sunset. Something important must be going on, to have drawn the traffic off
the highway; yet the city seemed unusually quiet.

He walked slowly down the hill, his thoughtful mood persisting. What kind
of government would solve the world's problems? As matters stood, all
governments were rapacious. People everywhere endured their rulers until they
had gained strength enough to throw them off and take on another load of
tyranny. The real trouble wasn't located at the capital, but in the immediate
neighbourhood, in the tribe, in the family, in themselves. Demetrius wished
he could talk with the lonely man from the country, and learn what he thought
of government; how, in his opinion, a better freedom might be found.

It suddenly occurred to him that the impudent little Athenian might know
what had become of the man who didn't want to be a king. He quickened his
steps, resolved to make inquiries for a caravan with spices to sell.

Down in the city, nearly all the usual activity had ceased. What had
become of everybody? Even in the market area, there were very few traders
about. Accosting a bearded old Greek, who was laboriously folding a bundle of
rags, Demetrius inquired what was happening; where were the people? The tired
old man shrugged and grinned, without making a reply. It was evident that he
thought the young fellow was trying to be playful.

'Has anything happened?' persisted Demetrius, soberly.

The old man tied his bundle and sat on it, puffing from his exertion.
Presently he regarded his fellow countryman with fresh interest.

'You trying to say,' he exclaimed, 'that you honestly don't know what's
happening? My boy, this is the night of the Jewish Passover. All the Jews are
in their houses. And those who haven't houses have crawled in somewhere under
shelter.'

'For how long?'

'Until morning. To-morrow they will be out early, for it is the last day
of Passover Week, and there will be much business. But where have you been,
that you didn't know?'

Demetrius was amused at the old man's comments on his ignorance.

'I've never been here before,' he said. 'I know nothing about the Jews'
customs. For the past two hours I've been out on the hill. There's an olive
grove.'

'I know.' The old man nodded. 'They call it the Garden of Gethsemane. Not
much there to see. Ever on Mars' Hill—in Athens?'

'Yes; beautiful!'

'These people can't make any statues. It's against their religion. Can't
carve anything.'

'There's a lot of carving on the Temple,' said Demetrius.

'Yes, but they didn't do it.' The old man rose and shouldered his
burden.

'I wonder if you know where I might find a caravan from Athens that deals
in spices,' asked Demetrius.

'Oh, yes. You mean Popygos. He's down by the old tower. You passed his
place when you came in from the hill. Popygos. Better keep your hand on your
wallet.'

'Would he rob a fellow Greek?'

'Popygos would rob his grandmother.'

Demetrius grinned and bade the grizzled old merchant good-bye. He started
toward the Insula. It was too late to go back looking for the spice caravan.
He would find it to-morrow. People were very much alike, wherever you found
them. The Jews hated their government. So did the Greeks. But a change of
government wouldn't help. That wasn't the trouble. The trouble was that the
people couldn't change each other or themselves. The rug merchant discredited
the spice merchant. Popygos would rob his grandmother. But that wasn't
Tiberius Cæsar's fault. Tiberius was a bad Emperor, no doubt; but under any
other government the grandmother of Popygos would be no more safe than she
was now. The lonely man from the country probably knew that. He didn't want
to be a king. No matter who was king, you'd better keep your hand on your
wallet. The world was in serious need of something—but it wasn't
something that a new king could furnish.

* * * * *

Demetrius did not wait to watch the early morning inspection. As soon as
he had finished serving his master's breakfast, he made off alone. Already
the streets were crowded. You had to pick your way carefully through the
market district or you might tramp on some reckless huckster sitting
cross-legged on the narrow sidewalk surrounded by his pitiful little stock of
merchandise—a few crude earthenware jugs, perhaps. Here sat a shapeless
bundle of rags that turned out to be an old woman with three eggs and a melon
for sale. The roadway was choked with pack-animals unloading into the little
bazaars. Everywhere emaciated arms stretched out for a penny. Loathsome sores
were unwrapped and put on display accompanied progressively by a wheedle, a
whine, a hiss, and a curse. A hollow-chested old man with empty fly-infested
eye-sockets apathetically blew a plaintive squawk from a decrepit flageolet.
Now the street narrowed into a dark pestilential cavern that declined over a
series of broad stone steps, slippery with refuse, swarming with beggars and
mangy half-starved dogs. According to Centurion Paulus, the Jews believed
that they were created in the image of their god. Demetrius held his nose and
hurried through this assortment of divine reproductions, taking care not to
brush against them.

The caravan was not hard to find. Near the old tower, overlooking the
little Kedron River, there was an open plaza where the road to the west
began. A pungent aroma—distinctly refreshing after a trip through the
market—guided Demetrius to his destination. A welcoming voice hailed
him.

'Ho, adelphos!' shouted the garrulous little Athenian. Demetrius was
honestly glad to see him, though at any other time or place he wouldn't have
liked to be hailed as brother by this intrusive fellow. They shook hands. 'I
was hoping to see you again. My name is Zenos. I don't think I told you.'

'I am Demetrius. You have a pleasant location here.'

'You're right! Plenty of room, and we see everything. You should have been
here last night. Much excitement! They arrested this Nazarene, you know.
Found him up there in the old park.'

'Nazarene! I hadn't heard. What had he done?' asked Demetrius, without
much interest.

'Why, you know! The man we saw on the white donkey, the other day.'

Demetrius quickened, and asked a lot of questions. Zenos was delighted to
have so much information to dispense. Troops from the Insula had been on the
look-out for this Jesus ever since Sunday noon. Last night they had captured
him; brought him, and his little band of friends, back into the city.

'But what had he done?' demanded Demetrius, impatiently.

'Well, they arrested him for stirring up the people, and for wanting to be
a king. Popygos says if they convict him of treason, it will go hard with
him.'

'Treason! But that's nonsense!' exclaimed Demetrius, hotly. 'That man
doesn't want to upset the Government; doesn't want to have anything to do
with the Government; neither this Government nor any other. Treason? They're
all crazy!'

'No, they're not crazy,' objected Zenos. 'The people who run the Temple
have got to dispose of him somehow or he'll ruin their business. Haven't you
heard what he did over there—same day we saw him?'

'Not a word. What happened?'

'What happened! Plenty! You see, the Temple is where the people make
sacrifices; buy animals and burn them; nasty mess, bad smell; but their god
likes the idea. So the loggia—or whatever they may call it—is
crowded full of animals for sale. The people bring their money, and the
money-changers—just inside the door—convert it into Temple
money.' Zenos laughed heartily. 'And everybody says that these bankers make a
fat thing of it, too.'

'Do you mean to say that they sell animals inside that beautiful Temple?'
asked Demetrius, incredulously.

'In an arcaded court done in marble!' declared Zenos, solemnly nodding his
head. 'In a court with gorgeous tiled paving; walls and ceiling in the finest
mosaic you ever saw; nothing nicer in Athens. And they have it full of calves
and sheep and pigeons. You can imagine how it looks—but you can't
imagine how it stinks! You've got to go there and smell it! Well, this Jesus
came in from the country—away up in Galilee somewhere—and went
into the Temple, and didn't like what he saw; said it was not the place to
sell animals. And he must have caught on to the thievery, too, for he made
short work of the money-changers.'

'What!' doubted Demetrius.

Zenos laughed delightedly over his friend's bewilderment.

'Yes, sir! If you'll believe it—he didn't look like a man who would
risk it—this Jesus picked up a whip and began slashing
about—'

Zenos elaborately cracked an imaginary whip a dozen times in swift
succession. 'Just as if he owned the whole establishment! Crack! Zip! Lash!
Crash! Slash!—and out they came. It was wonderful! Out galloped the
calves and the priests and the sheep and the bankers and the air was full of
pigeons and feathers. Then Jesus upset the money-tables. It poured out over
the floor—shekels and drachmas and denarii—big money, little
money, good money, bad money; swarms of pilgrims down on their hands and
knees fighting for it. Thrilling sight! I wouldn't have missed it!' Zenos
glanced over his shoulder and muttered, 'Here comes the old man. He's sore
to-day. His best customers are all busy attending to this Jesus.'

The door of the largest tent had been drawn aside and a paunchy old fellow
with greying hair and beard had stepped out and was waddling toward them. It
was a long time since Demetrius had seen anyone so barbarously festooned with
jewellery; heavy silver chains around his neck and depending to his middle,
rings on his fingers, rings in his ears, bracelets, anklets. He paused to
regard Demetrius with an appraising scowl.

'He's from Corinth.' Zenos pointed with his thumb. 'We got acquainted on
the road.'

'It would have been well,' said Popygos, 'if the Roman guard had let the
Jews settle their own quarrels to-day. Everybody in Jerusalem who has so much
as two shekels to rub together is mixed up with the case of this man from
Nazareth. Now that the Government is in it, the affair will go on all day.
And to-morrow is the Jews' Sabbath.'

'And they can't do business on the Sabbath,' remarked Demetrius, for
something to say.

Old Popygos stroked his whiskers reflectively.

'I have been making this trip for three-and-twenty years,' he said, 'and
we have sold fewer goods this time than ever before. It gets worse and worse.
Always some big squabble, Passover Week, to keep my best customers from
coming for their cloves and cinnamon.' Popygos upended a reed basket and sat
down, jingling. 'I can remember a time,' he went on, deliberately, 'when they
didn't have so many rackets. Now you take this thing that happened down here
at the Temple, last Sunday. A few years ago they were quite peaceful. The
country people came in to do the Passover business and a little trading.
Always brought a dove in a cage, if they were very poor, or a lamb or a calf,
if they could afford it. That was for the Temple. The priests burned the
offering—or said they did. They must have, from the way it reeked all
around here. Then these Temple people got a little smarter. A man from the
country would bring a lamb and the priests would examine it and find a wart
on its belly, or some small blemish. So that lamb wouldn't do. But they could
take his damaged lamb and give him a good one for it, if he would pay a cash
difference. Then the blemished lamb was ready to sell to the next
customer.'

'Well, it won't do any good,' drawled Popygos. 'At least, it hasn't done
him any good.'

'What will they do to him?' wondered Demetrius. 'Put him in prison?'

'Hardly! I understand they took him last night to the High Priest's house
and tried him for making a disturbance in the Temple. Defiling the
Temple—that was what they charged him with.' Popygos broke into bitter
laughter. 'As if anybody could defile a Temple that had been turned into a
stable. Of course they had enough witnesses on their side to convict him, so
they all rushed over to the Insula and got Pilate out of bed to hear the
case. He told them that they had better settle it among themselves, if it was
just another Temple brawl. But the rich old fellows wouldn't let the
Procurator off so easily as that. They said this Jesus was trying to make
himself a king. Pilate didn't take any stock in that, of course. So he
suggested that they whip him and let him go.'

'And did they whip him?' asked Demetrius, anxiously.

'That they did! And quite heavily, too. Then somebody in the crowd yelled,
"Kill the Galilean!" Pilate pricked up his ears, at that. "If this man is a
Galilean," he said, "try him before Herod. He handles all Galilean
matters."'

'Did they take him there?' asked Demetrius.

'Took him there,' nodded Popygos, 'and Herod had a good time tormenting
him, thinking that would please the Temple crowd and the fat money-lenders.
He ordered the soldiers to whip Jesus again; then dressed him in some old
scarlet regalia, and pretended to do homage to him. Some drunken lout rolled
up a thornbush and put it on his head for a crown. But the money-bags were
not satisfied with the show. They wanted this Jesus put to death—'

'To death!' shouted Demetrius.

'Yes. And they knew that nobody could give that order but Pilate. So they
all went back to the Insula.'

'And then what happened?' demanded Demetrius.

Popygos shook his head and twitched a shoulder.

'That's all I know,' he said. 'Diophanos the goldsmith, who was there and
told me this, had to come back to his bazaar.'

'Perhaps the trial is still going on at the Insula,' said Demetrius,
restlessly.

'You'd better keep away from there,' warned Popygos. 'No good comes from
mixing in business like that.'

'But my master may need me,' said Demetrius. 'I must go. I hope you have a
safe journey home, sir. Good-bye, Zenos.'

* * * * *

While still some distance away, Demetrius, who had quickened his pace
until he was almost running, saw a compact crowd gathered about the main
entrance to the Praetorium. He hurried up the steps and stood at the edge of
the tensely occupied audience, receiving dark glances from his well-dressed
Jewish neighbours as he appeared beside them. There were no poor people
present.

The Procurator was standing within the colonnade, surrounded by a
detachment of palace guards. On the highest level of the terraced flagging, a
company of troops, four ranks deep, stood stiffly at attention. In front of
them, standing alone, was the captive. Questions were being asked and
answered in a language Demetrius could not understand. He concluded it was
Aramaic, for that was the tongue spoken by the tempestuous crowd on the road.
He left his place and edged around until he was at the extreme right. Now he
could see the profile of the lonely man. Yes, he was wearing the crown of
thorns that Popygos had reported. The blood had run down from his forehead
until his face was streaked with it. His hands were tied. His coat had been
pulled back off his bare shoulders, showing livid whip-welts. Some of them
were bleeding. But he seemed not to be conscious of his injuries. The
Procurator's interrogations, whatever they were, proceeded quietly, the
prisoner, with uplifted face, as quietly answering them in a respectful but
self-confident tone. Occasionally a low dissenting mutter ran through the
sullen crowd that stood with eyes squinted and mouths open to hear the
testimony.

So intently had Demetrius been watching the victim's face that he had
barely glanced about. It now occurred to him to look for Marcellus. The front
rank was composed of officers representing the various forts. Paulus was
among them, resolutely erect, but swaying rhythmically. Immediately behind
him stood a single line of troops from Minoa. Marcellus was not to be
seen.

Now the Procurator was speaking in a louder voice. It brought an instant,
concerted, angry roar from the civilian audience. Demetrius manoeuvred to a
position where he could get a better view of the judge. Now he saw Marcellus,
standing with the other Legates at the immediate left of the Procurator. He
wondered whether his master really knew what was going on. Unless someone was
at hand to act as interpreter, Marcellus probably had no notion what all this
was about. Demetrius knew the exact meaning of the slightest expression on
his master's face. At the moment, it conveyed a good deal of bewilderment,
and about the same amount of boredom. It was evident that Marcellus wished he
were somewhere else.

Procurator Pilate seemed confused. The hostile attitude of his influential
audience had rattled him. He turned aside and gave an order to one of the
guards, who retired within the wide doorway. Presently he was back with a
huge silver basin. Pilate dipped his hands in it, and flicked water from his
fingers. The crowd roared again, but this time it was a cry of vengeful
triumph. It was clear that a decision had been made: equally apparent that
the decision had satisfied the prosecution. Now Demetrius understood what was
meant by the pantomime with the basin. Pilate was washing his hands of the
case. The people were to have their way, but they were to consider themselves
responsible for the judgment. As for the Procurator, he didn't care to have
the prisoner's blood on his hands. Demetrius felt that his master would
undoubtedly understand. Even if he knew nothing about the case, he would know
that Pilate had made a decision against his own inclinations.

Now Pilate had turned to Marcellus, who had stepped forward saluting.
There was a brief, inaudible colloquy. Marcellus bowed in acknowledgment of
an order, saluted again; and, descending the steps, approached Paulus and
gave him some instructions. Paulus barked a command, and the Minoa contingent
advanced, formed a line by twos, and executed a smart right-about. Led by
Marcellus, with Paulus to the immediate rear of him, the troops marched
through the crowd that opened a passage for them. One soldier of the final
pair paused to grasp the dangling rope that bound the condemned man's hands.
It was a rough and apparently unanticipated jerk, for it nearly lifted the
prisoner off his feet. The legionaries were marching with long strides.

Not many of the crowd fell in behind the procession. Most of them gathered
in muttering little groups, wagging their beards in sour satisfaction.
Demetrius wondered what was to be the fate of this Jesus. He had received the
death penalty; no question about that. Nothing less would have appeased the
people. He would probably be taken to the courtyard of some prison to face a
detachment of archers. On the other side of the street, a small company of
pale-faced, poorly dressed, badly frightened men from the country seemed
trying to decide whether to follow. After a moment, a few of them did; but
they were in no hurry to catch up. These people were undoubtedly Jesus'
friends. It was a pity, Demetrius thought, that they had acted so meanly. The
man surely deserved a more loyal support.

Undecided whether to trail along after the procession or wait at the
barracks for his master's return, Demetrius stood for some time irresolute.
Presently Melas joined him, grinning feebly.

'What are they going to do with him?' inquired Demetrius, unsteadily.

'Crucify him,' said Melas.

'Crucify him!' Demetrius's voice was husky. 'Why—he hasn't done
anything to deserve a death like that!'

'Maybe not,' agreed Melas, 'but that's the order. My guess is that the
Procurator didn't want to have it done, and thinks it may stir up some
trouble for him. That's why he gave Minoa the job; didn't want his own legion
mixed up in it. Minoa is pretty far away, and a tough lot.' Melas chuckled.
He was glad to belong to a tough lot. Minoa didn't mind a little
brutality.

'Are you going along with them?' asked Demetrius.

Melas scowled and shook his head.

'No—nothing for me to do there. Had you thought of going? It's not a
very pretty business: I can tell you that! I saw it done—
once—over in Gaul. Soldier stabbed his Centurion. They nailed him up
for that. It took all day. You could hear him cry for half a league. The big
black birds came before he died and—'

Demetrius shook his head, made a gesture of protest, and swallowed
convulsively. Melas grinned and spat awkwardly. Then he turned and started
ambling slowly back toward the barracks, leaving Demetrius standing there
debating with himself what to do.

After a while he moved along woodenly after Melas. Reaching his master's
silent and empty quarters, he sat down and tried to compose himself. His
heart was beating so hard it made his head ache.

Then he rose and found a drink of water. It occurred to him that Marcellus
too might want a drink before this dreadful business was over. He filled a
small jug, and started; walking slowly, for he didn't want to go.

Ever since he had looked into this Jesus' eyes, Demetrius had thought of
him as the lonely man whom nobody understood; not even his close friends.
To-day he would be a lonely man indeed.

One of the Insula's ten companies was absent from
inspection. Marcellus noticed the diminished strength of the Procurator's
Legion, but thought little of it. Whatever might be the nature of the
business that had called out these troops so early in the day, it was of no
concern to Minoa.

But when Julian, the Capernaum Commander who was taking his turn as
officer of the day, glumly announced that the customary parade was cancelled
and that all the legionaries would return to their barracks to await further
orders, Marcellus's curiosity was stirred. Returning to his quarters, he sent
for Paulus, confident that this ever-active fountain of gossip could explain
the mystery.

After a considerable delay, the Centurion drifted in unsteadily with
flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes. His Commander regarded him with
unconcealed distaste and pointed to a chair into which the dazed and untidy
Paulus lowered himself gently.

'Do you know what's going on?' inquired Marcellus.

'The Procurator,' mumbled Paulus, 'has had a bad night.'

'So have you, from all appearances,' observed Marcellus, frostily. 'What
has been happening—if it isn't a secret?'

'Pilate is in trouble.' Paulus's tongue was clumsy, and he chewed over his
words slowly. 'He is in trouble with everybody. He is even in trouble with
good old Julian, who says that if the man is a Galilean, Capernaum should
have been detailed to police the trial at Herod's court.'

'Would you be good enough to tell me what you are talking about?' rasped
Marcellus. 'What man? What trial? Begin at the beginning, and pretend I don't
know anything about it.'

Paulus yawned prodigiously, scrubbed his watery eyes with shaky fingers,
and began to spin a long, involved yarn about last night's experiences. An
imprudent carpenter from somewhere up in Galilee had been tried for
disturbing the peace and exciting the people to revolt. A few days ago, he
had become violent in the Temple, chasing the sacrificial animals out into
the street, upsetting the money-tills, and loudly condemning the holy place
as a den of robbers. 'A true statement, no doubt,' commented Paulus, 'but not
very polite.'

'The fellow must be crazy,' remarked Marcellus.

Paulus pursed his swollen lips judicially and shook his head.

'Something peculiar about this man,' he muttered. 'They arrested him last
night. They've had him up before old Annas, who used to be the High Priest;
and Caiaphas, the present High Priest; and Pilate, and Herod, and—'

'You seem to know a lot about it,' broke in Marcellus.

Paulus grinned sheepishly.

'A few of us were seeing the holy city by moonlight,' he confessed.
'Shortly after midnight we ran into this mob and went along with them. It was
the only entertainment to be had. We were a bit tight, sir, if you'll believe
it.'

'I believe it,' said Marcellus. 'Go on, please, with whatever you can
remember.'

'Well, we went to the trials. As I have said, we were not in prime
condition to understand what was going on, and most of the testimony was
shouted in Aramaic. But it was clear enough that the Temple crowd and the
merchants were trying to have the man put to death.'

'For what had happened at the Temple?'

'Yes, for that, and for going about the country gathering up big crowds to
hear him talk.'

'About what?'

'A new religion. I was talking with one of Pilate's legionaries who
understands the language. He said this Jesus was urging the country people to
adopt a religion that doesn't have much to do with the Temple. Some of the
testimony was rubbish. One fellow swore the Galilean had said that if the
Temple were torn down he could put it up again in three days. Stuff like
that! Of course, all they want is a conviction. Any sort of testimony is good
enough.'

'Where does the matter stand now?' asked Marcellus.

'I got more than enough of it at Herod's court, and came back before
daybreak; dead on my feet. They had just decided to have another trial before
Pilate, directly after breakfast. They are probably at the Insula now. Pilate
will have to give them what they want, and'—Paulus hesitated, and then
continued grimly—'what they want is a crucifixion. I heard them talking
about it.'

'Shall we go over there?' queried Marcellus.

'I've had enough, sir, if you'll excuse me.' Paulus rose with an effort
and ambled uncertainly across the room. In the doorway he confronted a
sentinel, garbed in the Insula uniform, who saluted stiffly.

'The Procurator's compliments,' he barked, in a metallic tone. 'The
ranking officers and a detachment of twenty men from the Minoa Legion will
attend immediately in the Procurator's court.' With another ceremonious
salute, he backed out and strutted down the corridor, without waiting for a
reply.

'I think I can guess,' growled Paulus. 'Pilate doesn't confer honours on
Minoa. He's going to detail us to do something too dirty and dangerous for
the local troops; doesn't want his precious legion mixed up in it. The Minoa
contingent will be leaving to-morrow. If any trouble results, we will be out
of reach.' He hitched up his belt and left the room. Marcellus stood
irresolute for a moment and followed, intending to ask Paulus to order out
the detachment. Through the half-open door to the Centurion's quarters, he
saw him greedily gulping from an enormous cup. He strode angrily into the
room.

'If I were you, Paulus,' he said, sternly, 'I shouldn't drink any more at
present. You've already had much too much.'

'If I were you,' retorted Paulus, recklessly, 'I would take as much of
this as I could hold!' He took a couple of uncertain steps toward Marcellus,
and faced him with brazen audacity. 'You're going to crucify a man to-day!'
he muttered. 'Ever see that done?'

'No.' Marcellus shook his head. 'I don't even know how it is done. You'll
have to tell me.'

Paulus carefully picked his way back to the table where the
grotesquely-shaped wineskin sat. Refilling the big cup, he handed it,
dripping, to his Commander.

'I'll show you—when we get there,' he said huskily. 'Drink that! All
of it! If you don't, you'll wish you had. What we're going to do is not a job
for a sober man.'

Marcellus, unprotesting, took the cup and drank.

'It isn't only that the thing is sickeningly cruel,' continued Paulus.
'There's something strange about this man. I'd rather not have anything to do
with him.'

'Afraid he'll haunt you?' Marcellus paused at the middle of the cup and
grinned half-heartedly.

'Well, you wait, and see what you think!' murmured Paulus, wagging his
head mysteriously. 'The witnesses said he acted at the Temple as if it were
his own personal property. And that didn't sound as silly as you might think,
sir. At old man Annas's house, I'll be bound if he didn't act as if he owned
the place. At Caiaphas's palace, everybody was on trial—but this Jesus!
He was the only cool man in the crowd at the Insula. He owns that, too.
Pilate felt it, I think. One of the witnesses testified that Jesus had
professed to be a king. Pilate leaned forward, looked him squarely in the
face, and said, "Are you?" Mind, sir, Pilate didn't ask him, "Did you say you
were a king?" He said, "Are you?" And he wasn't trying to be sarcastic,
either.'

'But that's nonsense, Paulus! Your wine-soaked imagination was playing
tricks on you!' Marcellus walked across to the table and poured himself
another cupful. 'You get out the troops,' he ordered, resolutely. 'I hope
you'll be able to stand straight, over at the Insula. You're very drunk, you
know.' He took another long drink, and wiped his mouth on the back of his
hand. 'So, what did the Galilean say to that—when Pilate asked him if
he was a king?'

'Said he had a kingdom—but not in this world,' muttered Paulus, with
a vague, upward spiralling gesture.

'No, I'm not going to leave you in the lurch, Marcellus.' It was the first
time Paulus had ever addressed the Commander by his given name.

'You're goo' fellow, Paulus,' declared Marcellus, giving him his hand. He
retraced his steps to the wineskin. Paulus followed and took the cup from his
hand.

'You have had just the right amount, sir,' he advised. 'I suggest that you
go now. Pilate will not like it if we are tardy. He has endured about all he
can take, for one morning's dose. I shall order out the detachment, and meet
you over there.'

* * * * *

With a purposely belated start, and after experiencing much difficulty in
learning the way to the place of execution—an outlying field where the
city's refuse was burned—Demetrius did not expect to arrive in time to
witness the initial phase of the crucifixion.

Tardy as he was, he proceeded with reluctant steps; very low in spirit,
weighted with a dejection he had not known since the day of his enslavement.
The years had healed the chain-scars on his wrists: fair treatment at the
hands of the Gallio family had done much to mend his heart: but to-day it
seemed that the world was totally unfit for a civilized man to live in. Every
human institution was loaded with lies. The courts were corrupt. Justice was
not to be had. All rulers, big and little, were purchaseable. Even the
temples were full of deceit. You could call the roll of all the supposed
allegiances that laid claim to the people's respect and reverence, and there
wasn't one of them that hadn't earned the bitter contempt of decent men!

Though accustomed to walk with long strides and clipped steps, Demetrius
slogged along through the dirty streets with the shambling gait of a
hopeless, faithless, worthless vagabond. At times his scornful thoughts
almost became articulate as he passionately reviled every tribunal and
judiciary, every crown and consistory in the whole wide, wicked world.
Patriotism! How the poets and minstrels loved to babble about the high honour
of shedding one's blood! Maybe they, too, had been bought up. Old Horace:
maybe Augustus had just sent him a new coat and a cask of wine when he was
inspired to write, 'How sweet and glorious to die for one's country!'
Nonsense! Why should any sane man think it pleasant or noble to give up his
life to save the world? It wasn't fit to live in; much less to die for! And
it was never going to be any better. Here was this foolhardy Galilean, so
thoroughly enraged over the pollution of a holy place that he had impulsively
made an ineffective little gesture of protest. Doubtless nineteen out of
every twenty men in this barren, beaten, beggared land would inwardly applaud
this poor man's reckless courage; but, when it came to the test, these
downtrodden, poverty-cursed nobodies would let this Jesus stand alone,
without one friend, before the official representatives of a crooked Temple
and a crooked Empire.

Loyalty? Why should any man bother himself to be loyal? Let him go out on
his own, and protect himself as well as he was able. Why should you spend
your life following at the heels of a Roman master, who alternately confided
in you and humiliated you? What had you to lose, in self-respect, by
abandoning this aristocrat? It wasn't hard to make one's way to Damascus.

It was a dark day for Demetrius. Even the sky was overcast with leaden,
sullen clouds. The sun had shone brightly at dawn. For the past half-hour an
almost sinister gloom had been thickening.

As he neared the disreputable field, identifiable for some distance, by
the noisome smoke that drifted from its smouldering corruptions, he met many
men walking rapidly back to the city. Most of them were well-fed,
well-dressed, pompous, preoccupied; men of middle age or older, strutting
along in single file, as if each had come alone. These people, surmised
Demetrius, were responsible for the day's crime. It relieved him to feel that
the worst of it was over. They had seen the public assassination to a
successful conclusion, and were now free to return to their banks and
bazaars. Some, doubtless, would go to the Temple and say their prayers.

After the last straggling group of mud hovels had been passed, the
loathsome, garbage-littered field lay before him. He was amazed to see how
much pollution had been conveyed to this place, for the city's streets had
not shown any lack of filth. A fairly clean, narrow path led toward a little
knoll that seemed to have been protected. Demetrius stopped, and looked. On
the green knoll three tall crosses stood in a row. Perhaps it had been
decided, as an afterthought, to execute a couple of the Galilean's friends.
Could it be possible that two among them, crazed by their leader's impending
torture, had attempted to defend him? Hardly: they hadn't had it in them: not
the ones he had seen that day on the road: not the ones he had seen, this
morning.

Forcing his unwilling feet, he advanced slowly to within less than a
stadium of the gruesome scene. There he came to a stop. The two unidentified
men were writhing on their crosses. The lonely man on the central cross was
still as a statue. His head hung forward. Perhaps he was dead, or at least
unconscious. Demetrius hoped so.

For a long time he stood there, contemplating this tragic sight. The hot
anger that had almost suffocated him was measurably cooled now. The lonely
man had thrown his life away. There was nothing to show for his audacious
courage. The Temple would continue to cheat the country people who came in to
offer a lamb. Herod would continue to bully and whip the poor if they
inconvenienced the rich. Caiaphas would continue to condemn the blasphemies
of men who didn't want the gods fetched to market. Pilate would deal out
injustice—and wash his dirty hands in a silver bowl. This lonely man
had paid a high price for his brief and fruitless war on wickedness.
But—he had spoken: he had acted. By to-morrow, nobody would remember
that he had risked everything—and lost his life—in the cause of
honesty. But perhaps a man was better off dead than in a world where such an
event as this could happen. Demetrius felt very lonely too.

There was not so large a crowd as he had expected to see. There was no
disorder, probably because the legionaries were scattered about among the
people. It was apparent, from the negligence of the soldiers' posture, as
they stood leaning on their lances, that no rioting had occurred or was
anticipated.

Demetrius moved closer in and joined the outer rim of spectators. Not many
of the well-to-do, who had been conspicuous at the Insula, were present. Most
of the civilians were poorly dressed. Many of them were weeping. There were
several women, heavily veiled and huddled in little groups, in attitudes of
silent, hopeless grief. A large circle had been left unoccupied below the
crosses.

Edging his way slowly forward, occasionally rising on tiptoe to search for
his master, Demetrius paused beside one of the legionaries who, recognizing
him with a brief nod, replied to his low-voiced inquiry. The Commander and
several other officers were on the other side of the knoll, at the rear of
the crosses, he said.

'I brought him some water,' explained Demetrius, holding up the jug. The
soldier showed how many of his teeth were missing.

'That's good,' he said. 'He can wash his hands. They're not drinking water
to-day. The Procurator sent out a wineskin.'

'Is the man dead?' asked Demetrius.

'No—he said something a while ago.'

'What did he say? Could you hear?'

'Said he was thirsty.'

'Did they give him water?'

'No, they filled a sponge with vinegar that had some sort of balm in it,
and raised it to his mouth; but he wouldn't have it. I don't rightly
understand what he is up there for, but he's no coward.' The legionary
shifted his position, pointed to the darkening sky, remarked that there was
going to be a storm, and moved on through the crowd.

Demetrius did not look at the lonely man again. He edged out into the open
and made a wide detour around to the other side of the knoll. Marcellus,
Paulus, and four or five others were lounging in a small circle on the
ground. A leather dice-cup was being shaken negligently, and passed from hand
to hand. At first sight of it, Demetrius was hotly indignant. It wasn't like
Marcellus to be so brutally unfeeling. A decent man would have to be very
drunk indeed to exhibit such callous unconcern in these circumstances.

Now that he was here, Demetrius thought he should inquire whether there
was anything he could do for his master. He slowly approached the group of
preoccupied officers. After a while, Marcellus glanced up dully and beckoned
to him. The others gave him a brief glance and resumed their play.

'Anything you want to tell me?' asked Marcellus, thickly.

'I brought you some water, sir.'

'Very good. Put it down there. I'll have a drink presently.' It was his
turn to play. He shook the cup languidly and tossed out the dice.

'Your lucky day!' growled Paulus. That finishes me.' He stretched his long
arms and laced his fingers behind his head. 'Demetrius,' he said, nodding
toward a rumpled brown garment that lay near the foot of the central cross,
'hand me that mantle. I want to look at it.'

Demetrius picked up the garment and gave it to him. Paulus examined it
with idle interest.

'Not a bad robe,' he remarked, holding it up at arm's length. 'Woven in
the country; dyed with walnut juice. He'll not be needing it any more. I
think I'll say it's mine. How about it, Tribune?'

There was a low mutter of thunder in the north and a savage tongue of
flame leaped through the black cloud. Paulus tossed a pair of threes, and
stared apprehensively at the sky.

'Not hard to beat,' said Vinitius, who sat next him. He took the cup and
poured out a five and a four. The cup made the circle without bettering this
cast until it arrived at Marcellus.

'Double six!' he called. 'Demetrius, you take care of the robe.' Paulus
handed up the garment.

'Shall I wait here for you, sir?' asked Demetrius.

'No—nothing you can do. Go back to the Insula. Begin packing up. We
want to be off early in the morning.' Marcellus looked up at the sky.
'Paulus, go around and see how they are doing. There's going to be a storm.'
He rose heavily to his feet, and stood swaying. Demetrius wanted to take his
arm and steady him, but felt that any solicitude would be resented. His
indignation had cooled now. It was evident that Marcellus had been drinking
because he couldn't bear to do this shameful work in his right mind.

There was a deafening, stunning thunderclap that fairly shook the ground
on which they stood. Marcellus put out a hand and steadied himself against
the central cross. There was blood on his hand when he regained his balance.
He wiped it off on his toga.

A fat man, expensively dressed in a black robe, waddled out of the crowd
and confronted Marcellus with surly arrogance.

'Rebuke these people!' he shouted, angrily. 'They are saying that the
storm is a judgment on us!'

There was another gigantic crash of thunder.

'Maybe it is!' yelled Marcellus, recklessly.

The fat man waved a menacing fist.

'It is your duty to keep order here!' he shrieked.

'Do you want me to stop the storm?' demanded Marcellus.

'Stop the blasphemy! These people are crying out that this Galilean is the
Son of God!'

'Maybe he IS!' shouted Marcellus. 'YOU wouldn't know!' He was fumbling
with the hilt of his sword. The fat man backed away, howling that the
Procurator should hear of this.

Circling the knoll, Demetrius paused for a final look at the lonely man on
the central cross. He had raised his face and was gazing up into the black
sky. Suddenly he burst forth with a resonant call, as if crying to a distant
friend for aid.

A poorly dressed, bearded man of middle age, apparently one of the
Galilean's friends from the country, rushed out of the crowd and ran down the
slope weeping aloud in an abandon of grief. Demetrius grasped him by the
sleeve as he stumbled past.

'What did he say?'

The man made no reply, tore himself loose, and ran on shouting his
unintelligible lamentations.

Now the dying Galilean was looking down upon the crowd below him. His lips
moved. His eyes surveyed the people with the same sorrow they had expressed
on the road when the multitude had hailed him as their king. There was
another savage burst of thunder. The darkness deepened.

Demetrius rolled up the robe and thrust it inside his tunic, pressing it
tightly under his arm. The intimate touch of the garment relieved his feeling
of desolation. He wondered if Marcellus might not let him keep the robe. It
would be a comfort to own something that this courageous man had worn. He
would cherish it as a priceless inheritance. It would have been a great
experience, he felt, to have known this man; to have learned the nature of
his mind. Now that there would be no opportunity to share his friendship, it
would be an enduring consolation to possess his robe.

Turning about, with swimming eyes, he started down the hill. It was
growing so dark now that the narrow path was indistinct. He flung a backward
look over his shoulder, but the descending gloom had swallowed up the
knoll.

By the time he reached the city streets, night had fallen on Jerusalem,
though it was only mid-afternoon. Lights flickered in the windows.
Pedestrians moved slowly, carrying torches. Frightened voices called to one
another. Demetrius could not understand what they were saying, but their tone
was apprehensive, as if they were wondering about the cause of this strange
darkness. He wondered, too, but felt no sense of depression or alarm. The
sensation of being alone and unwanted in an unfriendly world had left him. He
was not lonely now. He hugged the robe close to his side as if it contained
some inexplicable remedy for heartache.

Melas was standing in the corridor, in front of Paulus's door, when he
arrived at the barracks. Demetrius was in no mood to talk, and proceeded to
his master's quarters, Melas following with his torch.

'So you went out there, eh?' said the Thracian, grimly. 'How did you like
it?' They entered the room and Melas applied his torch to the big stone
lamps. Receiving no answer to his rough query, he asked, 'What do you think
this darkness is; an eclipse?'

'Maybe it's the end of the world,' said Melas, forcing an uncouth
laugh.

'That will suit me all right,' said Demetrius.

'Think this Jesus has had anything to do with it?' asked Melas, half in
earnest.

'No,' said Demetrius, 'I shouldn't think so.'

Melas moved closer and took Demetrius by the arm.

'Thought any more about Damascus?' he whispered.

Demetrius shook his head indifferently.

'Have you?' he asked.

'I'm going to-night,' said Melas. 'The Procurator always gives a dinner to
the officers on the last night. When it is over, and I have put the Centurion
to bed—he'll be tight as a tambourine—I'm leaving. Better come
with me. You'll wait a long time for another chance as good as this one.'

'No, I'm not going,' said Demetrius firmly.

'You'll not tell on me, will you?'

'Certainly not.'

'If you change your mind, give me a wink at the banquet.' Melas sauntered
toward the door. Demetrius, thinking he had gone, drew out the robe and
unfolded it under the light.

'What have you got there?' Melas asked from the doorway.

'His robe,' said Demetrius, without turning.

Melas came back and regarded the blood-stained garment with silent
interest.

'Quite true, sir,' approved Demetrius. 'A shower and a rub-down will put
you in order. I have laid out fresh clothing for you.'

'Very good,' Marcellus laboured on. 'Commander Minoa never dirty like
this. Wha's that?' He raked his fingers across a dark wet smudge on the skirt
of his toga. 'Blood!' he muttered. 'Great Roman Empire does big brave deed!
Wins bloody battle!' The drunken monologue trailed off into foggy
incoherences. Marcellus's head sank lower and lower on his chest. Demetrius
unfastened the toga, soaked a towel in cold water and vigorously applied it
to his master's swollen face and throat.

'Up you come, sir!' he ordered, tugging Marcellus to his feet. 'One more
hard battle to fight, sir. Then you can sleep it off.'

Marcellus slowly pulled himself together and rested both hands heavily on
his slave's shoulders while being stripped of his soiled clothing.

'I wouldn't do it again,' declared Marcellus, truculently—'no matter
who ordered it! Were you there when he called on his god to forgive us?'

'No, but I wouldn't have understood his language.'

'Nor I—but they told me. He looked directly at me after he had said
it. I'm going to have a hard time forgetting that look.'

Demetrius put his arm around Marcellus to steady him. It was the first
time he had ever seen tears in his master's eyes.

* * * * *

The Insula's beautiful banquet-hall had been gaily decorated for the
occasion with many ensigns, banners, and huge vases of flowers. An orchestra,
sequestered in an alcove, played stirring military marches. Great stone lamps
on marble pillars brightly lighted the spacious room. At the head table, a
little higher than the others, sat the Procurator with Marcellus and Julian
on either side and the Commanders from Caesarea and Joppa flanking them.
Everyone knew why Marcellus and Julian were given seats of honour. Minoa had
been assigned a difficult task and Capernaum had a grievance. Pilate was
glum, moody and distraught.

The household slaves served the elaborate dinner. The officers' orderlies
stood ranged against the walls, in readiness to be of aid to their masters,
for the Procurator's guests, according to a long-established custom, had come
here to get drunk, and not many of them had very far to go.

The representatives of Minoa were more noisy and reckless than any of the
others, but it was generally conceded that much latitude should be extended
in their case, for they had had a hard day. Paulus had arrived late. Melas
had done what he could to straighten him up, but the Centurion was dull and
dizzy—and surly. The gaiety of his table companions annoyed him. For
some time he sat glumly regarding them with distaste, occasionally jerked out
of his lethargy by a painful hiccough. After a while his fellow officers took
him in hand, plying him with a particularly heady wine which had the effect
of whipping his jaded spirits into fresh activity. He tried to be merry; sang
and shouted; but no one could understand anything he said. Presently he upset
his tall wine-cup, and laughed uproariously. Paulus was drunk.

It pleased Demetrius to observe that Marcellus was maintaining his own
with dignity. He was having little to say, but Pilate's taciturnity easily
accounted for that. Old Julian, quite sober, was eating his dinner with
relish, making no effort to engage the Procurator in conversation. The other
tables were growing louder and more disorderly as the evening advanced. There
was much boisterous laughter; many rude practical jokes; an occasional
unexplained quarrel.

The huge silver salvers, piled high with roasted meats and exotic fruits,
came and went; exquisitely carved silver flagons poured rare wines into
enormous silver goblets. Now and then a flushed Centurion rose from the couch
on which he lounged beside his table, his servant skipping swiftly across the
marble floor to assist him. After a while they would return. The officer,
apparently much improved in health, would strut back to his couch and resume
where he had left off. Many of the guests slept, to the chagrin of their
slaves. So long as your master was able to stagger out of the room and
unburden his stomach, you had no cause for humiliation; but if he went to
sleep, your fellow slaves winked at you and grinned.

Demetrius stood at attention, against the wall, immediately behind his
master's couch. He noted with satisfaction that Marcellus was merely toying
with his food, which showed that he still had some sense left. He wished,
however, that the Commander would exhibit a little more interest in the
party. It would be unfortunate if anyone surmised that he was brooding over
the day's events.

Presently the Procurator sat up and leaned toward Marcellus, who turned
his face inquiringly. Demetrius moved a step forward and listened.

'You are not eating your dinner, Legate,' observed Pilate. 'Perhaps there
is something else you would prefer.'

'Necessity?' Marcellus sat up and faced his host with cool impudence.
'This man was not guilty of a crime, as the Procurator himself admitted.'

Pilate frowned darkly at this impertinence.

'Am I to understand that the Legate of Minoa disputes the justice of the
court's decision?'

'Of course!' snapped Marcellus. 'Justice? No one knows better than the
Procurator that this Galilean was unjustly treated!'

'You are forgetting yourself, Legate!' said Pilate, sternly.

'I did not initiate this conversation, sir,' rejoined Marcellus, 'but if
my candour annoys you, we can talk about something else.

Pilate's face cleared a little.

'You have a right to your opinions, Legate Marcellus Gallio, he conceded,
'though you certainly know it is unusual for a man to criticize his superior
quite so freely as you have done.'

'I know that, sir,' nodded Marcellus, respectfully. 'It is unusual to
criticize one's superior. But this is an unusual case.' He paused, and looked
Pilate squarely in the eyes. 'It was an unusual trial, an unusual decision,
an unusual punishment—and the convict was an unusual man!'

'A strange person, indeed,' agreed Pilate. 'What did you make of him?' he
asked, lowering his voice confidentially.

Marcellus shook his head.

'I don't know, sir,' he replied, after an interval.

'He was a fanatic!' said Pilate.

'Doubtless. So was Socrates. So was Plato.'

Pilate shrugged.

'You're not implying that this Galilean was of the same order as Socrates
and Plato!'

The conversation was interrupted before Marcellus had an opportunity to
reply. Paulus had risen and was shouting at him drunkenly, incoherently.
Pilate scowled, as if this were a bit too much, even for a party that had
lost all respect for the dignity of the Insula. Marcellus shook his head and
signed to Paulus with his hand that he was quite out of order. Undeterred,
Paulus staggered to the head table, leaned far across it on one unstable
elbow, and muttered something that Demetrius could not hear. Marcellus tried
to dissuade him, but he was obdurate and growing quarrelsome. Obviously much
perplexed, the Commander turned and beckoned to Demetrius.

'Centurion Paulus wants to see that robe,' he muttered. 'Bring it
here.'

Demetrius hesitated so long that Pilate regarded him with sour
amazement.

'Go—instantly—and get it!' barked Marcellus, angrily.

Regretting that he had put his master to shame, in the presence of the
Procurator, Demetrius tried to atone for his reluctant obedience by moving
swiftly. His heart pounded hard as he ran down the corridor to the Legate's
suite. There was no accounting for the caprice of a man as drunk as Paulus.
Almost anything could happen, but Paulus would have to be humoured.

Folding the blood-stained, thorn-rent garment over his arm, Demetrius
returned to the banquet-hall. He felt like a traitor, assisting in the
mockery of a cherished friend. Surely this Jesus deserved a better fate than
to be abandoned—even in death—to the whims of a drunken soldier.
Once, on the way, Demetrius came to a full stop and debated seriously whether
to obey—or take the advice of Melas, and run.

Marcellus glanced at the robe, but did not touch it.

'Take it to Centurion Paulus,' he said.

Paulus, who had returned to his seat, rose unsteadily; and, holding up the
robe by its shoulders, picked his way carefully to the head table. The room
grew suddenly quiet, as he stood directly before Pilate.

'Trophy!' shouted Paulus.

Pilate, with a reproachful smile, glanced toward Marcellus, as if to hint
that the Legate of Minoa might well advise his Centurion to mend his
manners.

'Trophy!' repeated Paulus. 'Minoa presents trophy to the Insula.' He waved
an expansive arm towards the banners that hung above the Procurator's
table.

Pilate shook his head crossly and disclaimed all interest in the drunken
farce with a gesture of annoyance. Undaunted by his rebuff, Paulus edged over
a few steps and addressed Marcellus.

'Put it on!' shouted Paulus. 'Here, Demetrius; hold the robe for the
Legate!'

He thrust it into Demetrius's hands. Someone yelled, 'Put it on!' And the
rest of them took up the shout, pounding the tables with their goblets. 'Put
it on!'

Feeling that the short way out of the dilemma was to humour the drunken
crowd, Marcellus rose and reached for the robe. Demetrius stood clutching it
in his arms, seemingly unable to release it. Marcellus was pale with
anger.

'Give it to me!' he commanded, severely. All eyes were attentive, and the
place grew quiet. Demetrius drew himself erect, with the robe held tightly in
his folded arms. Marcellus waited a long moment, breathing heavily. Then
suddenly drawing back his arm he slapped Demetrius in the face with his open
hand. It was the first time he had ever ventured to punish him.

Demetrius slowly bowed his head and handed Marcellus the robe; then stood
with stooping shoulders while his master tugged it on over the sleeves of his
toga. A gale of appreciative laughter went up, and there was tumultuous
applause. Marcellus did not smile. His face was drawn and haggard. The room
grew still again. As a man in a dream, he fumbled woodenly with the neck of
the garment, trying to pull it off his shoulders. His hands were shaking.

'Shall I help you, sir?' asked Demetrius, anxiously.

Marcellus nodded; and when Demetrius had relieved him of the robe, he sank
into his seat as if his knees had suddenly buckled under him.

'Take that out into the courtyard,' he muttered, hoarsely, 'and burn
it!'

Demetrius saluted and walked rapidly across the hall. Melas was standing
near the doorway. He moved in closer as Demetrius passed.

'Meet me, at midnight, at the Sheep Gate,' he whispered.

'I'll be there,' flung back Demetrius, as he hurried on.

* * * * *

'You seem much shaken.' Pilate's tone was coolly derisive. 'Perhaps you
are superstitious.'

Marcellus made no reply. It was as if he had not heard the sardonic
comment. He took up his wine-cup in a trembling hand and drank. The other
tables, now that the unexpected little drama had been played out, resumed
their banter and laughter.

'I suspect that you have had about enough for one day,' added the
Procurator, more considerately. 'If you wish to go, you may be excused.'

'Thank you, sir,' replied Marcellus, remotely. He half-rose from his
couch, but finding that his knees were still weak, sank down again. Too much
attention had already been focused on him: he would not take the risk of an
unfortunate exit. Doubtless his sudden enfeeblement would soon pass. He tried
to analyse this curious enervation. He had been drinking far too much to-day.
He had been under a terrific emotional strain. But even in his present state
of mental confusion, he could still think straight enough to know that it
wasn't the wine or the day's tragic task. This seizure of unaccountable
inertia had come upon him when he thrust his arms into the sleeves of that
robe! Pilate had taunted him about his superstition. Nothing could be farther
from the truth: he was not superstitious. Nobody had less interest in or
respect for a belief in supernatural persons or powers. That being true, he
had not himself invested this robe with some imagined magic.

He realized that Pilate was looking him over with contemptuous curiosity.
His situation was becoming embarrassing. Sooner or later he would be obliged
to stand up. He wondered if he could.

A palace guard was crossing the room, on his way to the head table. He
came to a halt as he faced the Procurator, saluted stiffly, and announced
that the Captain of the Vestris had arrived and wished to deliver a letter to
Legate Marcellus Lucan Gallio.

'Bring it here,' said Pilate.

'Captain Fulvius wishes to deliver it with his own hands, sir,' said the
guard.

'Nonsense!' retorted Pilate. 'Tell him to give you the letter. See that
the Captain has his dinner and plenty of wine. I shall have a word with him
in the morning.'

'The letter, sir,' said the guard, impressively, 'is from the
Emperor!'

Marcellus, who had listened with scant interest, now leaned forward and
looked at the Procurator inquisitively.

'Very well,' nodded Pilate. 'Tell him to come in.'

The few moments of waiting seemed very long. A letter from the Emperor!
What manner of message would be coming from crazy old Tiberius? Presently the
bronzed, bearded, bow-legged sailor ambled through the room, in tow of the
guard. Pilate greeted him coolly and signed for him to hand the scroll to
Marcellus. The Captain waited, and the Procurator watched out of the tail of
his eye, while the seals were broken. Marcellus thrust a shaky dagger through
the heavy wax, slowly unrolled the papyrus, and ran his eye over the brief
message. Then he rolled up the scroll and impassively addressed the
Captain.

'When are you sailing?' There was nothing in Marcellus's tone to indicate
whether the letter from Emperor Tiberius bore good tidings or bad. Whatever
the message was, it had not stirred him out of his strange apathy.

'To-morrow night, sir. Soon as we get back to Joppa.'

'Very good,' said Marcellus, casually. 'I shall be ready.'

'We should leave here an hour before dawn, sir,' said the Captain. 'I have
made all arrangements for your journey to the port. The ship will call at
Gaza to pick up whatever you may wish to take with you to Rome.'

'How did you come to deliver this letter to Legate Marcellus Gallio here
in Jerusalem?' inquired Pilate, idly.

'I went to the Minoa fort, sir, and they told me he was here.' The Captain
bobbed an awkward leave-taking and followed the guard from the hall. Pilate,
unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, turned to Marcellus with
inquiring eyes.

'If congratulations are in order,' he said, almost deferentially, 'may I
be the first to offer them?'

'Thank you,' said Marcellus, evasively. 'If it is agreeable to you, sir, I
shall go now.'

'By all means,' approved Pilate, stiffening. 'Perhaps you need some
assistance,' he added, as he observed Marcellus's struggle to rise. 'Shall I
send for your servant?'

Clutching the table for support, Marcellus contrived to get to his feet.
For a moment, as he steadied himself, he was unsure whether his legs would
bear his weight until he had crossed the banquet-hall. Clenching his hands,
he made a determined effort to walk. With short infirm steps, he began the
long journey to the door, so intent upon it that he had failed to give his
distinguished host as much as a farewell glance.

He was immeasurably relieved when, having passed through the door and into
the broad corridor, he could brace a hand against the wall. After he had
proceeded for some distance down the hall, he came to an arched doorway that
opened upon the spacious courtyard. Feeling himself quite unable to go
farther, he picked his way, with the caution of an old man, down the steps.
On the lower step, he sat down heavily, in the darkness that enveloped the
deserted parade-ground, wondering whether he would ever regain his
strength.

Occasionally, during the next hour, he made tentative efforts to rise; but
they were ineffectual. It struck him oddly that he was not more alarmed about
his condition. Indeed, this lethargy that had attacked him physically had
similarly disqualified his mind.

The fact that his exile, which had threatened to ruin his life, was now
ended, did not exult his spirit. He said, over and over to himself,
'Marcellus, wake up! You are free! You are going home! You are going back to
your family! You are going back to Diana! The ship is waiting! You are to
sail to-morrow! What ails you, Marcellus?'

Once he roused to consciousness as the figure of a man with a pack on his
shoulder neared his darkened doorway. The fellow was keeping close to the
wall, proceeding with stealthy steps. It was Paulus's slave. He had the
furtive air of a fugitive. As he passed, he gave a sudden start at the sight
of Marcellus sitting there; and, taking to his heels, vanished like a
frightened antelope. Marcellus thought this faintly amusing, but did not
smile. So, Melas was running away. Well, what of it? The question arrived and
departed with no more significance than the fitful flicker in the masses of
exotic shrubbery where the fireflies played.

After what seemed a very long time, there came the sound of sandals
scraping along the marble corridor, and thick, tired voices. The banquet was
over. Marcellus wondered dully whether he should make his presence known to
them as they passed, but felt powerless to come to a decision. Presently the
footsteps and voices grew fainter and fainter, down the corridor. After that,
the night seemed more dark. But Marcellus had no sense of desolation. His
mind was inert. He laboriously edged his way over to the marble pillar at the
right of the arch; and, leaning against it, dreamlessly slept.

* * * * *

Demetrius had spent a busy hour in the Legate's suite, packing his
master's clothing and other equipment for the journey he would be making in
the morning, back to Minoa. He had very few misgivings about escaping from
his slavery, but the habit of waiting on Marcellus was not easy to throw off.
He would perform this final service, and then be on his way to liberty. He
might be captured, or he might experience much hardship; but he would be
free! Marcellus, when he sobered, would probably regret the incident in the
banquet-hall; might even feel that his slave had a just cause for running
away.

He hadn't accomplished his freedom yet, but he was beginning to experience
the sense of it. After he had strapped the bulky baggage, Demetrius quietly
left the room and returned to his own small cubicle at the far end of the
barracks occupied by the contingent from Minoa where he gathered up his few
belongings and stowed them into his bag. Carefully folding the Galilean's
robe, he tucked it in last after packing everything else.

It was, he admitted, a very irrational idea, but the softness of the
finely woven, homespun robe had a curious quality. The touch of it had for
him a strangely calming effect, as if giving him a new reliance. He
remembered a legend from his childhood, about a ring that bore the insignia
of a prince. And the prince had given the ring to some poor legionary who had
pushed him out of an arrow's path. And, years afterwards, when in great need,
the soldier had turned the ring to good account in seeking an audience with
the prince. Demetrius could not remember all the details of the story, but
this robe seemed to have much the same properties as the prince's ring. It
was in the nature of a surety, a defence.

It was a long way to the Sheep Gate, but he had visited it before on one
of his solitary excursions, lured there by Melas's information that it was
now rarely used except by persons coming into the city from the villages to
the north. If a man were heading for the Damascus road, and wished to avoid a
challenge, the Sheep Gate offered the best promise. Demetrius had been full
of curiosity to see it. He had no intention of running away, but thought it
might be interesting to have a glimpse of a road to freedom. Melas had said
it was easy.

The gate was unguarded, deserted indeed. Melas had not yet arrived, but
his tardiness gave Demetrius no concern. Perhaps he himself was early. He
lounged on the parched grass by the roadside, in the shadow of the crumbling
limestone bastion, and waited.

At length he heard the rhythmic lisps of sandal-straps, and stepped out
into the road.

'Anyone see you go?' asked Melas, puffing a little as he put down his pack
for a momentary rest.

'No. Everything was quiet. How about you?'

'The Legate saw me leave.' Melas chuckled. 'He gave me a fright. I was
sneaking along the barracks wall, in the courtyard, and came upon him.'

'What was he doing there?' demanded Demetrius sharply.

'Just sitting there, by himself, in a doorway.'

'He recognized you?'

'Yes, I feel sure he did; but he didn't speak. Come! Let's not stand here
any longer. We must see how far we can travel before sunrise.' Melas led the
way through the dilapidated gate.

'Did the Legate appear to be drunk?' asked Demetrius.

'N-no, not very drunk,' said Melas, uncertainly. 'He left the hall before
any of the others; seemed dizzy and half out of his mind. I was going to wait
and put my mean old drunkard to bed, but they kept at it so long that I
decided to leave. He probably won't miss me. I never saw the Centurion so
drunk before.'

They plodded on through the dark, keeping to the road with difficulty.
Melas stumbled over a rock and cursed eloquently.

'You say he seemed crazy?' said Demetrius, anxiously.

'Yes, dazed, as if something had hit him. And out there in that archway,
he had a sort of empty look in his face. Maybe he didn't even know where he
was.'

Demetrius's steps slowed to a stop.

'Melas,' he said, hoarsely, 'I'm sorry—but I've got to go back to
him.'

'Why, you—' The Thracian was at a loss for a strong enough epithet.
'I always thought you were soft! Afraid to run away from a fellow who strikes
you in the face before a crowd of officers, just to show them how brave he
was! Very well! You go back to him and be his slave forever!'

Demetrius had turned and was walking away.

'Good luck to you, Melas!' he called, soberly.

'Better get rid of that robe!' shouted Melas, his voice shrill with anger.
'That's what drove your smart young Marcellus out of his mind! He began to go
crazy the minute he put it on! He is accursed! The Galilean has had his
revenge!'

Demetrius stumbled on through the darkness, Melas's raging imprecations
following him as far as the old gate.

Although winter was usually brief on the Island of Capri,
there was plenty of it while it lasted—according to Tiberius Cæsar, who
detested it. The murky sky depressed his spirit. The raw dampness made his
creaking joints ache. The most forlorn spot, he declared, in the Roman
Empire.

The old man's favourite recreation, since committing most of his
administrative responsibilities to Prince Gaius, was residential
architecture. He was forever building huge, ornate villas on the lofty
skyline of Capri, for what purpose not even the gods knew.

All day long, through spring, summer, and autumn, he would sit in the
sun—or under an awning if it grew too hot—and watch his
stonemasons at work on yet another villa. And his builders had respect for
these constructions too, for the Emperor was an architect of no mean ability.
Nor did he allow his æsthetic taste to run away with his common sense. The
great cisterns required for water conservation on a mountain-top were planned
with the practical skill of an experienced plumber and concealed with the
artistry of an idealistic sculptor.

There were nine of these exquisite villas now, ranged in an impressive row
on the highest terrain, isolated from one another by spacious gardens, their
architectural style admitting that they had been derived from the mind and
purse of the jaded, restless, irascible old Cæsar who lived in the Villa
Jovis which dominated them all—a fact further illuminated by the
towering pharos rising majestically from the centre of its vast, echoing
atrium.

Tiberius hated winter because he could not sit in the sun and watch his
elaborate fancies take on form and substance. He hadn't very long to live,
and it enraged him to see the few remaining days slipping through his bony
fingers like fine sand through an hourglass.

When the first wind and rain scurried across the bay to rattle the doors
and pelt the windows of his fifty-room palace, the Emperor went into complete
and embittered seclusion. No guests were welcome. Relatives were barred from
his sumptuous suite. No deputations were received from Rome; no state
business was transacted.

Prince Gaius, whom he despised, quite enjoyed this bad weather, for while
the Emperor was in hibernation he felt free to exercise all the powers
entrusted to him—and sometimes a little more. Tiberius, aware of this,
fumed and snuffled, but he had arrived at the stage of senescence where he
hadn't the energy to sustain his varied indignations. They burned white-hot
for an hour—and expired.

Through the short winter, no one was allowed to see the decaying monarch
but his personal attendants and a corps of bored physicians who packed his
old bones in hot fomentations of spiced vinegar and listened obsequiously to
his profane abuse.

But the first ray of earnest sunshine always made another man of him. When
its brightness spread across his bed and dazzled his rheumy eyes, Tiberius
kicked off his compresses and his doctors, yelled for his tunic, his toga,
his sandals, his cap, his stick, his piper, his chief gardener, and staggered
out into the peristyle. He shouted orders, thick and fast; and things began
to hum. The Emperor had never been gifted with much patience, and nobody
expected that he would miraculously develop this talent at eighty-two. Now
that spring had been officially opened, with terrifying shrieks and reckless
cane-waving, the Villa Jovis came to life with a suddenness that must have
shocked the conservative old god after whom the place had been named. The
Macedonian musicians and Indian magicians and Ionian minstrels and Rhodesian
astrologers and Egyptian dancing girls were violently shaken out of their
comfortable winter sloth to line up before his fuming majesty and explain why
(at the expense of a tax-harried, poverty-cursed Empire) they had been living
in such disgusting indolence.

For the sake of appearances, a servant would then be dispatched to the
Villa Dionysus (the name of his aged wife's palace had been chosen with an
ironical chuckle) to inquire about the health of the Empress, which was the
least of the old man's anxieties. It would not have upset him very much to
learn that Julia wasn't so well. Indeed, he had once arranged for the old
lady's assassination, an event which had failed to happen only because the
Empress, privily advised of the engagement planned for her, had disapproved
of it.

This season, spring had arrived much earlier than usual, forcing
everything into bloom in a day. The sky was full of birds, the gardens were
full of flowers, the flowers were full of bees, and Tiberius was full of joy.
He wanted somebody to share it with him; somebody young enough to respond
with exultation to all this beauty: who but Diana!

So that afternoon a courier, ferrying across to Neapolis, set forth on a
fast horse, followed an hour later by the most commodious of the royal
carriages—stuffed with eider-down pillows as a hint that the return
journey from Rome to Capri, albeit hard to take, should be made with
dispatch; for the distinguished host was not good at waiting. His letter,
addressed to Paula Gallus, was brief and urgent. Tiberius did not ask whether
it would be convenient for her to bring Diana to Capri, and, if so, he would
send for them: he simply advised her that the carriage was on the way at full
gallop, and that they were to be prepared to take it immediately upon its
arrival.

* * * * *

At dusk on the third day of their hard travel, Paula and Diana had stepped
out of the imperial barge on to the Capri wharf, and, climbing wearily into
the luxurious litters awaiting them, had been borne swiftly up the
precipitous path to the Villa Jovis. There the old Emperor had met them with
a pathetic eagerness, and mercifully suggested that they retire at once to
their baths and beds, adding that they were to rest undisturbed until
to-morrow noon. This inspired announcement Paula Gallus received with an
almost tearful gratitude, and made haste to avail herself of its
benefits.

Diana, whose physical resources had not been so thoroughly depleted,
lingered, much to the old man's delight; slipped her hand through his arm and
allowed herself to be led to his private parlour, where, when he had sunk
into a comfortable chair, she drew up a stool; sat, with her shapely arms
folded on his emaciated knee, and looked up into his deep-lined face with a
tender affection that made the Emperor clear his throat and wipe his hawk-
like nose.

It was so good of him, and so like him, she said, to want her to come. And
how well he was looking! How glad he must be to see spring come again. Now he
would be out in the sunshine, every day, probably supervising some new
building. What was it going to be, this season: another villa, maybe? Diana
smiled into his eyes.

'Yes,' he replied, gently, 'another villa. A truly beautiful villa.' He
paused, narrowing his averted eyes thoughtfully. 'The most beautiful of them
all, I hope. This one'—Tiberius gave her an enigmatic smile—'this
one is for the sweet and lovely Diana.' He did not add that this idea had
just now occurred to him. He made it sound as if he were confiding a plan
that had been long nurtured in secret.

Diana's eyes swam and sparkled. She patted the brown old hand tenderly.
With a husky voice she murmured that he was the very dearest grandfather
anyone ever had.

'And you are to help me plan the villa, child,' said Tiberius warmly.

'Was that why you sent for me?' asked Diana.

The old man pursed his wrinkled lips into a sly smile and lied
benevolently with slow nods of his shaggy white head.

'We will talk about it to-morrow,' he promised.

'Then I should get to bed at once,' she decided, springing to her feet.
'May I have breakfast with you, Grandfather?'

Tiberius chuckled amiably.

'That's too much to ask of you, my sweet,' he protested. 'You must be very
tired. And I have my breakfast at dawn.'

'I'll be with you!' announced Diana. She softly patted him on the head.
'Good-night, Your Majesty.' Dropping to one knee, she bowed ceremoniously and
rising retreated—still facing him—until she reached the door
where she paused, puckered her smiling lips, and pantomimed a kiss.

The aged Emperor of Rome was much pleased.

* * * * *

It was high noon and the day was bright. Not for a long time had Tiberius
enjoyed himself so fully. This high-spirited girl was renewing his interest
in life. She had matured beyond belief since he had last seen her. He
responded to her radiant vitality with an almost adolescent yearning. Had
Diana hinted that she would like to own the Island of Capri, Tiberius would
have handed it to her without pausing to deliberate.

After breakfast they had walked to the far east end of the enchantingly
lovely mall, Diana ecstatic, the Emperor bumbling along with short steps and
shorter breaths, scraping the mosaic pavement with his sandal-heels. Yes, he
panted, there was plenty of room at the far end of the row for a magnificent
villa. Nothing, he declared, would ever obstruct this splendid view. He
stopped, clutched at Diana's arm for steadiness, and pointed toward the
north-east with a shaky cane. There would always be old Vesuvius to greet you
in the morning. And do you not see the sunlight glinting from the white roofs
of Pompeii and Herculaneum? And across there, close at hand, is sleepy little
Surrentum. You can sit at your window and see everything that is going on in
Surrentum.

Observing that the old man's legs were becoming unsteady, Diana had
suggested that they should turn aside here and rest in the arbour that marked
the eastern boundary of the new, and still unoccupied, Villa Quirinus. The
Emperor sank heavily into a rustic chair and mopped his perspiring brow, his
thin, mottled hand trembling as if palsied. For some time they sat in
silence, waiting for the old man to recuperate. His lean face was contorted
and his jaw chopped convulsively.

'You have grown to be a beautiful woman, Diana!' he remarked, in a thin
treble, after blandly evaluating her charms with the privileged eyes of
eighty-two. 'You will probably be married one of these days.'

Diana's bright smile slowly faded and her heavy lashes fell. She shook her
curly, blue-black head and gave what seemed a painful little sob through
locked teeth. Tiberius snorted impatiently and pounded the pavement with his
cane.

'Now what's the trouble?' he demanded. 'In love with the wrong man?'

'Yes.' Diana's face was sober and her reply was a mere whisper. 'I don't
mind telling you, Grandfather,' she went on, with overflowing eyes, 'I'm in
love with Marcellus.'

'Well, why not? What's the matter with Marcellus?' The old man leaned
forward to peer into her unhappy eyes. 'It would be a most excellent
alliance,' he went on. 'There isn't a more honourable man in the Empire than
Gallio. And you are fond of Lucia. By all means—marry Marcellus! What's
to hinder?'

'Marcellus,' murmured Diana, hopelessly, 'has been sent far away—to
be gone for years, perhaps. He has been put in command of the fort at
Minoa.'

'Minoa!' shouted Tiberius, straightening his sagging spine with an
indignant jerk. 'Minoa!' he shrilled—'that dirty, dried-up,
pestilential, old rat-hole? Who ordered him to go there, I'd like to
know?'

'Prince Gaius,' exploded Diana, swept with sudden anger.

'Gaius!' The Emperor pried himself up by his elbows, struggled to his
feet, and slashed the air with his cane. His leaky old eyes were boiling.
'Gaius!' he shrieked. 'The misbegotten, drunken, dangerous fool! And what
made him think he could do that to the son of Marcus Lucan Gallio? To Minoa
indeed! Well! we'll see about that!' He clawed at Diana's arm. 'Come! Let us
return to the villa! Gaius will hear from his Emperor.'

Leaning heavily on her, and wasting his waning strength on savage screams
of anger, Tiberius shuffled along toward the Villa Jovis, pausing
occasionally to shout long vituperations composed of such ingenious
sacrileges and obscenities that Diana was more astounded than embarrassed. On
several occasions she had witnessed the old man's grumpiness when annoyed.
This was the first time she had seen him in one of his celebrated rages. It
was commonly believed that the Emperor, thoroughly roused, went temporarily
insane. There was a rumour—probably slanderous—that he had been
known to bark like a dog, and bite, too.

Deaf to Diana's urgent entreaty that he should rest a little while before
dictating the message to Gaius, the old man began howling for his chief
scrivener while they were still trudging through the peristyle. A dozen
dignified servants approached from all directions, making as if they would be
of service, but keeping a discreet distance. Diana finally got the fuming
Emperor as far as the atrium, where she dumped him on a couch and into the
solicitous hands of the Chamberlain; then scurried away to her room, where
she flung herself down on her bed, with her face buried in the pillow, and
laughed hysterically until she cried.

After a while, she repaired her face at the mirror; and, slipping across
the corridor, tapped gently at her mother's door. She pushed it open and
peeped in. Paula Gallus stirred and sleepily opened one eye.

'Mother!' Diana crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.
'What do you think?' she whispered, dramatically. 'He's going to bring
Marcellus home!'

'Well,' said Paula, from a considerable distance, 'that's what you had
planned to make him do, wasn't it?'

'Yes, but isn't it wonderful?' insisted Diana.

'It will be, when he has done it,' drawled Paula. 'You'd better stand over
him and see that he doesn't forget all about it.'

'Oh, he wouldn't forget! Not this time! Never was anyone so angry! Mother,
you should have seen him! He was terrific!'

'I know,' yawned Paula. 'I've seen him.'

'Well, in spite of everything,' declared Diana, 'I think he's an old
darling!'

'He's an old lunatic!' mumbled Paula.

Diana pressed her cheek against her mother's heart.

'Marcellus is coming back,' she murmured ecstatically. 'Gaius will be very
angry to have his orders flouted, but he won't be able to do a thing about
it, will he?' And when Paula did not immediately reply, Diana added,
anxiously, 'Will he, Mother?'

'Not at present—no.' Paula's tone carried a hint of warning. 'But we
must keep it in mind that Tiberius is a very old man, my dear. He shouts and
stamps and slobbers on himself—and forgets, in an hour or two, what it
was that upset him. Besides, he is going to die one of these days.'

'And then Gaius will be the Emperor?' Diana's voice was full of
trouble.

'Nobody knows, dear.'

'But he hates Gaius! You should have heard him!'

'Yes, but that's not imperial power: that's just an angry old man's noise.
Julia and her little clique will appoint the next Emperor. It may not be
Gaius. They quarrel frequently.'

'Not a chance in a thousand.' Paula waved aside the suggestion with a
languid hand.

'But Father is a great man!' declared Diana, loyally.

Paula nodded and her lips curled into a grim smile.

'Great men do not become Emperors, Diana,' she remarked, bitterly. 'It's
against the rules. Your father is not eligible. He has no talent for
treachery. He is brave and just. And, besides, he is not epileptic.... Now,
you had better run along and see that the letter gets safely started on its
way.'

Diana took a few steps; and, returning slowly, sat down on the bed again.
She smiled mysteriously.

'Let's have it,' encouraged Paula. 'It seems to be a
secret—yes?'

'Mother, he is going to build a great villa for me!'

Paula grinned.

'Nonsense!' she muttered. 'By noon he won't remember that he ever said
such a thing. At least I sincerely hope he doesn't. Imagine your living
here!'

'Marcellus, too,' said Diana. 'He wants Marcellus to live here, I
think.'

'And do what?'

'We didn't talk about that.'

Paula ran her fingers gently over Diana's hand.

'Well, be sure you don't introduce the subject. Let him talk. Promise him
anything. He'll forget. You don't want a villa on Capri. You don't want
Marcellus living here in this hateful atmosphere. Hot-headed as he is, you
would be a widow in a week! Go now, child! Make him write that letter!'

* * * * *

Lucia's intuition told her that Marcellus was on board this galley. For an
hour—ever since its black prow had nosed around the bend, and the three
banks of long oars had pushed the heavy hull into full view—she had
been standing here alone in the pergola, leaning against the balustrade,
intently watching.

If the Vestris had experienced no delays, she could have arrived in Ostia
as early as the day before yesterday. Father had cautioned them to be
patient. Watched pots were slow to boil. It was a long voyage from Joppa, and
the Vestris had several ports to make on the way home. But even Father, in
spite of his sensible advice, was restless as a caged fox; you could tell
from the way he invented time-killing errands for himself.

The whole villa was on edge with impatience to have Marcellus safely home.
Tertia was in a flutter of excitement for two good reasons: she was eager for
the return of Marcellus, of course; and she was beside herself with anxiety
to see Demetrius. It was a pity, thought Lucia, that Demetrius had been so
casual in his attitude toward Tertia. Marcipor drifted about from room to
room, making sure that everything was in first-class order. Mother had
ordered gay new draperies for Marcellus's suite. The only self-possessed
person in the household was Mother. She had wept happily when Diana came to
tell them what had happened, but was content to wait calmly.

As for Lucia, she had abandoned all pretence of patience. All yesterday
afternoon, and again to-day, she had waited in the pergola, watching the
river. Sometimes she would leave her post and try to stroll in the rose
arbours—now in their full June glory—but in a few minutes her
feet would turn back, of their own accord, to the observation point at the
east end of the pergola.

As the galley crept up the river, veering toward the docks, Lucia's
excitement increased. She knew now that her brother was one of the
passengers, probably fidgeting to be off. If her guess were correct, it would
not be long now until they would see him. He would hire a carriage at the
wharf and come fast. Wouldn't Father be surprised? He wasn't expecting
Marcellus to-day; had gone over beyond the Aventine to look at a new riding
horse; it was to be a home-coming present. Maybe Marcellus would be here when
Father returned.

It was going to be a great pity that Diana would not be at home to welcome
him. Tiresome old Tiberius had sent for her again, and there was nothing she
could do but obey him.

'Will he keep on pestering her like that?' Lucia had wondered.

'She must not offend him,' Father had said, seriously. 'The old man is
malicious enough to hand Marcellus over to the Prince, if Diana fails to
humour him.' After a moment of bitter reflection, he had muttered, 'I am
afraid the child is in an awkward—if not dangerous—position. And
while we are not directly responsible for it, her predicament worries
me.'

'But the Emperor wouldn't harm Diana!' she had exclaimed. 'That old
man?'

Father had growled deep in his throat.

'A Cæsar,' he had snarled, contemptuously, 'is capable of great
wickedness—up to and including his last gasp—though he should
live a thousand years!'

'I don't believe you like the Emperor,' she had said, impishly, to cool
him off, and she made for the door. He had grunted crossly—and
grinned.

You could just see the stern of the galley now, as it slipped into its
berth. Lucia had been on this tension for so long that she was ready to fly
into bits. She couldn't wait here another instant! The servants might think
it strange if she went alone to the entrance gate. But this was a special
occasion. Returning to the house, she ran on, through to the imposing
portico, down the marble steps, and set off briskly on the long, shaded
driveway that wound through the acacias and acanthuses and masses of
flowering shrubbery. A few slaves, ending their day's work in the formal
gardens, raised their eyes inquisitively. At a little distance from the
ornate bronze gates, Lucia, flushed and nervous, sat down on a stone bench,
resolved to hold herself together until the great moment.

After what seemed a very long time, a battered old public chariot, drawn
by two well-lathered horses, turned in from the busy avenue. Beside the
driver stood Demetrius, tall, tanned, and lean. He sighted her instantly,
clutched the driver's arm, handed him a coin and dismissed him. Stepping
down, he walked quickly toward her, and Lucia ran to meet him. His face, she
observed, was grave, though his eyes had lighted as she impulsively gave him
her hands.

'Demetrius!' she cried. 'Is anything wrong? Where is Marcellus?'

'There was no carriage at the wharf,' he explained. 'I came to find a
better conveyance.'

'Is my brother not well?' Still holding his hands, Lucia searched his eyes
anxiously. He flinched a little from this inquisition, and his reply was
evasive.

'No, my master is not; my master did not have a pleasant voyage.'

'Oh, that!' She smiled her relief. 'I thought my brother was a better
sailor. Was he sick all the way?'

Demetrius nodded non-committally. It was plain to see he was holding
something back. Lucia's eyes were troubled.

'Tell me, Demetrius!' she pleaded, huskily. 'What ails my brother?' There
was a disturbingly long silence.

'The Tribune had a very unhappy experience, the day before we sailed.'
Demetrius was speaking slowly, measuring his words. 'It is too long a story
to tell you now, for my master is at the wharf awaiting me. He has been
deeply depressed and is not yet fully recovered. He did not sleep well on the
ship.'

'Stormy weather?' suggested Lucia.

'A smooth sea,' went on Demetrius, evenly. 'But my master did not sleep
well; and he ate but little.'

'Was the food palatable?'

'No worse than food usually is on ships, but my master did not eat; and
therefore he suffers of weakness.... May I go quickly now—and get the
large carriage for him?'

'Demetrius, you are trying to spare me, I think.' Lucia challenged his
eyes with a demand for the whole truth.

'Your brother,' said Demetrius, deliberately, 'is moody. He prefers not to
talk much, but does not like to be left alone.'

Lucia nodded, and Demetrius, saluting with his spear, turned to go. She
moved forward and fell into step with him. He lagged to walk behind her. She
slowed her pace. He stopped.

'Please precede me,' he suggested, gently. 'It is not well that a slave
should walk beside his master's sister.'

'It is a stupid rule!' flashed Lucia.

'But—a RULE!' Demetrius's impatience had sharpened his tone.
Instantly he saw that he had offended her. Her cheeks were aflame and her
eyes were swimming. 'I am sorry,' he murmured, contritely. 'I did not mean to
hurt you.'

'It was my fault,' she admitted. Turning abruptly, she led the way with
long, determined steps. After they had proceeded for a little way in silence,
Lucia, her eyes straight ahead, declared bitterly, 'I hate this whole
business of slavery!'

'I don't care much for it myself,' rejoined Demetrius, dryly.

It was the first time he had been amused for nearly two months.
Half-turning suddenly, Lucia caught him in a broad grin. Her lips curved into
a fleeting, reluctant smile. Squaring her shapely shoulders, she quickened
her swinging stride and marched on. Demetrius lengthening his steps as he
followed, stirred by the rhythm of her graceful carriage.

She paused where the driveway divided to serve the great house and the
stables. Demetrius stood at attention.

'Tell me truly,' she begged, in a tone that disposed of his slavery, 'is
Marcellus's mind affected?'

Demetrius accepted his temporary freedom and spoke without constraint.

'Marcellus has had a severe shock. Perhaps he will improve, now that he is
back home. He will make an effort to show his interest, I think. He has
promised me that much. But you must not be startled if he stops
talking—in the middle of a remark—and seems to forget what you
were talking about. And then, after a long wait, he will suddenly ask you a
question—always the same question—' Demetrius averted his eyes,
and seemed unwilling to proceed further.

'What is the question,' insisted Lucia.

'He will say, "Were you out there?"'

'Out where?' she asked, frowning mystifiedly.

Demetrius shook his head and winced.

'I shall not try to explain that,' he said. 'But when he asks you if you
were out there, you are to say, "No!" Don't ask him, "Where?" Just say, "No!"
And then he will recover quickly, and seem relieved. At least, that was the
way the conversation went when we were on the Vestris. Sometimes he would
talk quite freely with the Captain, almost as if nothing was the matter. Then
he would suddenly lose interest and retreat inside himself. Then he would
inquire, "Were you out there?" And Captain Fulvius would say, "No." Then
Marcellus would be pleased, and say, "Of course—you weren't there. That
is good. You should be glad."'

'Did the Captain know what he was talking about?' inquired Lucia.

Demetrius nodded, rather grudgingly, she thought.

'Why can't you tell me?' Her tone was almost intimate.

'It's—it's a long story,' he stammered. 'Perhaps I may tell you,
sometime.'

She took a step nearer, and lowering her voice almost to a whisper, asked,
'Were YOU "out there"?'

He nodded reluctantly, avoiding her eyes. Then, impetuously abandoning the
last shred of reserve, he spoke on terms of equality.

'Don't question him, Lucia. Treat him exactly as you have always done.
Talk to him about anything—except Jerusalem. Be careful not to touch
this sore spot. Maybe it will heal. I don't know. It's very deep and painful,
this mental wound.'

Her cheeks had flushed a little. Demetrius had made full use of the
liberty she had given him: he had spoken her name. Well, why not? Who had a
better right? They all owed much to this devoted slave.

'Thanks, Demetrius,' she said, gently. 'It was good of you to tell me what
to do.'

At that, he abruptly terminated his brief parole, snapped to a stiff
military posture, looked through her without seeing her as he made a
ceremonious salute, then turned, and marched away. Lucia stood for a moment,
indecisively, watching his dignified retreat with softened eyes.

* * * * *

For the first hour after his arrival, it was difficult to reconcile
Marcellus's behaviour and his slave's warning. Parting from Demetrius, Lucia
had hurried upstairs with the appalling news, and before she had finished
devastating her mother with these sad tidings of her brother's predicament,
her father had returned. There was little to be said. They were awed,
stunned. It was as if they had learned of Marcellus's death, and were waiting
for his body to be brought home.

It was a happy surprise, therefore, when he entered breezily with
unusually affectionate greetings. True, he was alarmingly thin and his face
was haggard; but good food and plenty of rest (boomed Father, confidently)
would quickly restore him to full weight and vitality. As for his mental
condition, Demetrius's report had been wholly incorrect. What, indeed, had
ailed the fellow—to frighten them with the announcement that his master
was moody and depressed? Quite the contrary, Marcellus had never been so
animated!

Without pausing to change after his journey, he had seemed delightfully
eager to talk. In his mother's private parlour, they had drawn their chairs
close together, at his suggestion, though Marcellus had not sat down himself.
He had paced about, like a caged animal, talking rapidly with an almost
boisterous exuberance, pausing to toy with trifles on his mother's table,
halting to peer out at the window, but continuing to chatter about the ship,
the ports of call, the aridity of Gaza, the crude life at Minoa. Under normal
conditions, the family might have surmised that he had had too much wine. It
wasn't like Marcellus to talk so incessantly, or so fast. But they were glad
enough that it wasn't the other thing! He was excited over his home-coming;
that was all. They listened attentively, their eyes shining. They laughed
gaily at his occasional drolleries and cheered him on.

'Do sit down, boy!' his mother had urged, tenderly, at his first full
stop. 'You're tired. Don't wear yourself out.'

So Marcellus had sat down, in the very middle of a stirring story about
the bandits who infested the old salt trail, and his voice had become less
strident. He continued talking, but more slowly, pausing to grope for the
right word. Presently his forced gaiety acknowledged his fatigue, and he
stopped—quite suddenly, too, as if he had been interrupted. For an
instant his widened eyes and concentrated expression made him appear to have
seen or heard something that had commanded his full attention. They watched
him with silent curiosity, their hearts beating hard.

'What is it, Marcellus?' asked his mother, trying to steady her voice.
'Would you like a drink of water?'

He tried unsuccessfully to smile, and almost imperceptibly shook his head,
as the brightness faded from his eyes. The room was very quiet.

'Perhaps you had better lie down, my son,' his father suggested, trying
hard to sound casual.

Marcellus seemed not to have heard that. For a little while his breathing
was laborious. His hands twitched, and he slowly clenched them until the thin
knuckles whitened. Then the seizure passed, leaving him sagged and
spiritless. He nervously rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Then
he slowly turned his pathetically sad face toward his father, stared at him
curiously, and gave a long, shuddering sigh.

'Were you—were you out there, sir?' he asked, weakly.

'No, my son.' It was the thin voice of an old, old man.

Marcellus made a self-deprecating little chuckle, and shook his head, as
if decrying his own foolishness. He glanced about with an attempted smile,
vaguely searching their eyes for an opinion of this strange behaviour. He
swallowed noisily.

'Of course you weren't,' he said, disgusted with himself. 'You have been
here, all the time; haven't you?' Then he added, in a tired voice, 'I think I
should go to bed now, Mother.'

'I think so too,' said his mother, softly. She had made an earnest effort
not to let him see how seriously she had been affected, but at the sight of
his drooping head, she put both hands over her eyes and sobbed. Marcellus
looked toward her pleadingly, and sighed.

'Will you call Demetrius, Lucia?' he asked, wearily.

She stepped to the door, thinking to send Tertia, but it was unnecessary.
Demetrius, who obviously had been waiting in the corridor, just outside the
door, entered noiselessly and assisted his master to his feet.

'I'll see you—all—in the morning,' mumbled Marcellus. He
leaned heavily on his slave as they left the room. Lucia made a little moan
and slipped away quietly. The Senator bowed his head in his hands, and was
silent.

* * * * *

Marcus Lucan Gallio had not made a quick and easy decision when he
resolved to have a confidential, man-to-man conference with Demetrius. The
Senator punctiliously practised the same sort of justice in dealing with his
slaves as he had ever proudly observed in his relations with freedmen; but he
also believed in firm discipline for them. Sometimes it annoyed him when he
observed a little gesture of affection—almost a caress,
indeed!—in Lucia's attitude toward Tertia; and on a couple of occasions
(though this was a long time ago) he had had to remind his son that the way
to have a good slave was to help him keep his place.

Gallio had an immense respect for Marcellus's handsome and loyal
Corinthian. He would have trusted him anywhere and with anything, but he had
never departed from the inexorable line which he felt should be drawn,
straight and candid, between master and slave. It had now come to pass that
he must invite Demetrius to step across that social boundary; for how else
could he hope to get the full truth about the circumstances which had made
such sad havoc of his son's mind?

Two days had passed, Marcellus remaining in his room. Gallio had gone up
several times to see him, and had been warmly but shyly welcomed. A
disturbing constraint on Marcellus's part, a forced amiability, an
involuntary shrinking away from a compassionate contact lest it inadvertently
touch some painfully sensitive lesion—these strange retreats, in
pathetic combination with an obvious wish to show a filial affection,
constituted a baffling situation. Gallio didn't know how to talk with
Marcellus about it; feared he might say the wrong thing. No, Demetrius had
the key to it. He must make Demetrius talk. In the middle of the afternoon,
he sent for him to come to the library.

Demetrius entered and stood at attention before Gallio's desk.

'I wish to have a serious talk with you, Demetrius, about my son. I am
greatly disturbed. I shall be grateful to you for a full account of whatever
it is that distresses him.' The Senator pointed to the chair opposite his
desk. 'You may sit down, if you like. Perhaps you will be more
comfortable.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Demetrius, respectfully. 'I shall be more
comfortable standing, if you please, sir.'

'As you choose,' said Gallio, rather curtly. 'It occurred to me that you
might be able to speak more freely, more naturally, if you sat.'

'No, sir, thank you,' said Demetrius. 'I am not accustomed to sitting in
the presence of my betters. I can speak more naturally on my feet.'

'Sit down!' snapped Gallio. 'I don't want you towering over me, answering
questions in stiff monosyllables. This is a life-and-death matter! I want you
to tell me everything I ought to know—without reserve!'

Demetrius laid his heavy metal-studded leather shield on the floor, stood
his spear against a pillar, and sat down.

'Now, then!' said Gallio. 'Let's have it! What ails my son?'

'My master was ordered to bring a detachment of legionaries to Jerusalem.
It was a custom, during the annual festival of the Jews, for representations
from the various Palestinian forts to assemble at the Procurator's Insula,
presumably to keep order, for the city was crowded with all sorts.'

'Pontius Pilate is the Prefect of Jerusalem: is that not true?'

'Yes, sir. He is called the Procurator. There is another provincial
governor residing in Jerusalem.'

'Ah—I remember. A vain fellow—Herod. A rascal.'

'Doubtless,' murmured Demetrius.

'Jealous of Pilate, I am told.'

'No one should be jealous of Pilate, sir. He permits the Temple to dictate
to him. At least he did, in the case I must speak of.'

'The one that concerns my son?' Gallio leaned forward on his folded arms
and prepared to listen attentively.

'May I inquire, sir, whether you ever heard of the Messiah?'

'No. What is that?'

'For hundreds of years the Jews have been expecting a great hero to rise
and liberate them. He is their promised Messiah. On these yearly feast-weeks,
the more fanatical among them are on the alert, thinking he may appear.
Occasionally they have thought they had found the right man—but nothing
much ever came of it. This time—' Demetrius paused, thoughtfully,
stared out of the open window, and neglected to finish the sentence.

'There was a Jew from the Province of Galilee,' he continued, 'about my
own age, I should think, though he was such an unusual person that he
appeared almost independent of age, or time—'

'You saw him, then?'

'A great crowd of country people tried to persuade him that he was the
Messiah; that he was their king. I saw that, sir. It happened the day we
arrived.'

'"Tried to persuade him," you say.'

'He had no interest in it, at all, sir. It appears that he had been
preaching, mostly in his own province, to vast throngs of people; a simple,
harmless appeal for common honesty and kindness. He was not interested in the
Government.'

'Probably advised them that the Government was bad,' surmised Gallio.

'I do not know, sir; but I think he could have done so without violating
the truth.'

The crow's-feet about Gallio's eyes deepened a little.

'I gather that you thought the Government was bad, Demetrius.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Perhaps you think all governments are bad.'

'I am not acquainted with all of them, sir,' parried Demetrius.

'Well,' observed Gallio, 'they're all alike.'

'That is regrettable,' said Demetrius, soberly.

'So, then, the young Galilean repudiated kingship—and got into
trouble, I suppose, with his admirers?'

'And the Government, too. The rich Jews, fearing his influence in the
country, insisted on having him tried for treason. Pilate, knowing he had
done no wrong, made an effort to acquit him. But they would have him
condemned. Against his will, Pilate sentenced him to death.' Demetrius
hesitated. 'Sentenced him to be crucified,' he went on, in a low tone. 'The
Commander of the fort at Minoa was ordered to conduct the execution.'

'Marcellus? Horrible!'

'Yes, sir. Fortunately he was blind drunk when he did it. A seasoned
Centurion, of the Minoa staff, had seen to that. But he was clear enough to
realize that he was crucifying an innocent man and—well, as you see,
sir, he didn't get over it. He dismisses it from his mind for a
while—and then it all sweeps over him again, like a bad dream. He sees
the whole thing, so vividly that it amounts to acute pain! It is so real to
him, sir, that he thinks everybody else must have known something about it;
and he asks them if they do—and then he is ashamed that he asked.'

Gallio's eyes widened with sudden understanding.

'Ah!' he exclaimed. '"Were you out there?" So that's it!'

'That is it, sir; but not quite all.' Demetrius's eyes travelled to the
window and for a moment he sat tapping his finger-tips together as if
uncertain how to proceed. Then he faced the Senator squarely and went on.
'Before I tell you the rest of it, sir, I should like to say that I am not a
superstitious person. I have not believed in miracles. I am aware that you
have no faith in such things, and you may find it very hard to accept what I
must now tell you.'

'Say on, Demetrius!' said Gallio, thumping his desk impatiently.

'This Jesus of Galilee wore a simple, brown, homespun robe to the cross.
They stripped it off and flung it on the ground. While he hung there, dying,
my master and a few other officers sat near-by playing with dice. One took up
this robe and they cast lots for it. My master won it. Later in the evening,
there was a banquet at the Insula. Everyone had been drinking to excess. A
Centurion urged my master to put on the robe.'

'Shocking idea!' grumbled Gallio. 'Did he do it?'

'He did it—quite unwillingly. He had been very far gone in wine, in
the afternoon, but was now steadied. I think he might have recovered from the
crucifixion horror if it had not been for the robe. He put it on—AND HE
HAS NEVER BEEN THE SAME SINCE!'

'You think the robe is haunted, I suppose.' Gallio's tone was almost
contemptuous.

'I think something happened to my master when he put it on. He tore it off
quickly, and ordered me to destroy it.'

'Very sensible! A poor keepsake!'

'I still have it, sir.'

'You disobeyed him?'

Demetrius nodded.

'My master was not himself when he gave that order. I have occasionally
disobeyed him when I felt that the command was not to his best interest. And
now I am glad I kept the robe. If it was the cause of his derangement, it
might become the instrument of his recovery.'

'Absurd!' expostulated Gallio. 'I forbid you to let him see it again!'

'Just HOW do you think this robe might be used to restore my son's
mind?'

'I do not know, sir,' Demetrius confessed. 'I have thought about it a
great deal. No plan has suggested itself.' He rose to his feet and met the
Senator's eyes directly. 'It has occurred to me that we might go away for a
while. If we were alone, an occasion might arise. He is always on the
defensive here. He is confused and ashamed of his mental condition. Besides,
there is something else weighing heavily on his mind. The daughter of Legate
Gallus will return soon. She will expect my master to call on her, and he is
worrying about this meeting. He does not want her to see him in his present
state.'

'I can understand that,' said Gallio. 'Perhaps you are right. Where do you
think he should go?'

'Is it not customary for a cultured young man to spend some time in
Athens? Should he decide to go there—either to attend lectures or
practise some of their arts—no questions would be asked. Your son has
always been interested in sculpture. My belief is that it will be difficult
to do very much for him while he remains here. He should not be confined to
the house; yet he knows he is in no condition to see his friends. The word
may get about that something is wrong. This would be an embarrassment for
him—and the family. If it is your wish, sir, I shall try to persuade
him to go to Athens. I do not think it will require much urging. He is very
unhappy.'

'Yes, I know,' muttered Gallio, half to himself.

'He is so unhappy'—Demetrius lowered his voice to a tone of intimate
confidence—'that I fear for his safety. If he remains here, Diana may
not find him alive when she returns.'

'You mean, Marcellus might destroy himself rather than face her?'

'Why not? It's a serious matter with him.'

'Have you any reason to believe that he has been contemplating
suicide?'

Demetrius was slow about replying. Drawing a silver-handled dagger from
the breast of his tunic, he tapped its keen blade against the palm of his
hand. Gallio recognized the weapon as the property of Marcellus.

'I think he has been toying with the idea, sir,' said Demetrius.

'You took this from him?'

Demetrius nodded.

'He thinks he lost it on the boat.'

Gallio sighed deeply; and, returning to his desk, he sat down, drew out a
sheet of papyrus and a stylus, and began writing rapidly in large letters.
Finishing, he affixed his seal.

'Take my son to Athens, Demetrius, and help him recover his mind. But no
man should ask a slave to accept such a responsibility.' He handed the
document to Demetrius. 'This is your certificate of manumission. You are a
free man.'

Demetrius stared at the writing in silence. It was hard for him to realize
its full significance. Free! Free as Gallio! He was his own man! Now he could
speak—even to Lucia—as a freedman! He was conscious of Gallio's
eyes studying him with interest as if attempting to read his thoughts. After
a long moment, he slowly shook his head and returned the document to the
Senator.

'I appreciate your generosity, sir,' he said, in an unsteady voice. 'In
any other circumstances, I should be overjoyed to accept it. Liberty means a
great deal to any man. But I think we would be making a mistake to alter the
relationship between my master and his slave.'

'Would you throw away your chance to be free,' demanded Gallio, huskily,
'in order to help my son?'

'My freedom, sir, would be worthless to me—if I accepted it at the
peril of Marcellus's recovery.'

'You are a brave fellow!' Gallio rose and walked across the room to his
huge bronze strong-box. Opening a drawer, he deposited the certificate of
Demetrius's release from bondage. 'Whenever you ask for it,' he declared, 'it
will be here, waiting for you.' He was extending his hand, but Demetrius,
pretending not to have seen the gesture, quickly raised his spear-shaft to
his forehead in a stiff salute.

'May I go now, sir!' he asked, in the customary tone of servitude.

Gallio bowed respectfully, as to a social equal.

* * * * *

No one in the household had been more distressed than Marcipor, who did
not feel at liberty to ask questions of anybody but Demetrius, and
Demetrius's time had been fully occupied. All day he had paced about
restlessly, wondering what manner of tragedy had befallen Marcellus whom he
idolized.

When the door of the library opened, after the lengthy interview,
Marcipor, waiting impatiently in the atrium, came forward to meet Demetrius.
They clasped hands silently and moved away together into an alcove.

'What is it all about, Demetrius?' asked Marcipor, in a guarded tone. 'Is
it something you can't tell me?'

Demetrius laid a hand on the older Corinthian's shoulder and drew him
closer.

'It is something I MUST tell you,' he murmured. 'Come to my room at
midnight. I cannot tarry now. I must go back to him.'

After the villa was quiet and Demetrius was assured that Marcellus was
asleep, he retired to his adjacent bedchamber. Presently there was a light
tap on the door, and Marcipor entered. They drew their chairs close and
talked in hushed voices until the birds began to stir in the pale blue light
of the oncoming dawn. It was a long, strange story that Demetrius had to
tell. Marcipor wanted to see the robe. Demetrius handed it to him, and he
examined it curiously.

'But YOU don't believe there is some peculiar power in this garment, do
you?' asked Marcipor.

'I don't know,' admitted Demetrius. 'If I said, "Yes, I do believe that,"
you would think I was going crazy; and if I feared I was crazy, I wouldn't be
a fit person to look after Marcellus, who unquestionably IS crazy, and needs
my care. So—I think I had better say that there's nothing in this robe
that you don't put into it yourself—out of your own imagination. As for
me, I saw this man, and—well—that makes all the difference. He
was not an ordinary person, Marcipor. I could be easily persuaded that he was
divine.'

'That seems an odd thing for you to say, Demetrius,' disapproved Marcipor,
studying his face anxiously. 'You're the last man I would have suspected.' He
stood up, and held the robe out at arm's length. 'Do you care if I put it
on?'

'No, he wouldn't care if you put it on,' said Demetrius.

'Who do you mean—wouldn't care?' Marcipor's face was puzzled.
'Marcellus?'

'No, the man who owned it. He didn't object to my having it, and you are
as honest as I am.'

'By the Gods, Demetrius,' muttered Marcipor. 'I believe you ARE a bit
touched by all this grim business. How do you know he didn't object to your
having his robe? That's foolish talk!'

'Well, be it foolish or not, when I touch this robe it—it does
something to me,' stammered Demetrius. 'If I am tired, it rests me. If I am
dejected, it revives my spirits. If I am rebellious over my slavery, it
reconciles me. I suppose that is because, when I handle his robe, I remember
his strength and courage. Put it on, if you want to, Marcipor. Here, let me
hold it for you.'

Marcipor slipped his long arms into the sleeves, and sat down.

'It IS strangely warm,' he said. 'My imagination, I suppose. You have told
me of his deep concern for the welfare of all other people; and, quite
naturally, his robe—' Marcipor's groping words slowed to a stop, and he
gave Demetrius a perplexed wisp of a smile.

At sunset on the last day of the month which Julius
Cæsar—revising the calendar—had named for himself, Marcellus and
his slave sighted the Parthenon from a decrepit vehicle that deserved a place
in the Athenian Museum of Antiquities. It was with mingled feelings that
Demetrius renewed acquaintance with his native land.

Had his business in the Grecian capital been more urgent, and had he been
of normal mind, the erstwhile Legate of the Legion at Minoa might have
fretted over the inexcusable tedium of their voyage.

He and Demetrius had embarked on the Greek ship Clytia for the sole reason
that they wanted to leave Rome without delay and the Clytia's sailing was
immediate. In no other respect was this boat to be recommended. Primarily a
cargo vessel built expressly for wheat shipments to the Imperial City, the
battered old hulk usually returned to Greece in ballast, except for certain
trivial consignments of furniture and other household gear for Roman envoys
in the provinces.

There was no private accommodation for passengers. All nine of them shared
the same cabin. There was only one deck. At the stern a primitive kitchen,
open to the sky, was at the disposal of fare-paying voyagers, who were
expected to cook their own meals. The Clytia offered the raw materials for
sale at a nice profit.

Almost too handy to the kitchen and adjacent dining-table a half-dozen not
very tidy pens confined a number of unhappy calves and sheep and a large
crate of dilapidated fowls. Upon embarkation there had also been a few pigs,
but a Jewish merchant from Cytherea had bought them, on the second day out,
and had unceremoniously offered them to Neptune—with his unflattering
compliments, for he was not a good sailor.

Amidship in the vicinity of the Clytia's solitary mast a constricted area
of deck space, bounded by a square of inhospitable wooden benches, served as
promenade and recreation centre. Beside the mast a narrow hatchway descended
steeply into the common cabin, which was lighted and ventilated by six
diminutive port-holes. Upon the slightest hint of a fresh breeze these
prudent little ports were closed. The Clytia made no attempt to pamper her
passengers. Indeed, it was doubtful whether any other craft plying between
Ostia and Piraeus was equipped to offer so comprehensive an assortment of
discomforts.

The grimy old ship's only grace was her love of leisure. She called
everywhere and tarried long; three days and nights, for example, in
unimportant Corfu, where she had only to unload a bin of silica and take on a
bale of camel's-hair shawls; four whole days in Argostoli, where she
replenished her water-casks, discharged a grateful passenger, and bought a
crate of lemons. She even ambled all the way down to Crete, for no better
cause than to leave three blocks of Carrara marble and acquire a case of
reeking bull-hides for conversion into shields. While in port, one of her
frowsy old hawsers parted, permitting the Clytia to stave a galley that lay
alongside; and another week had passed before everybody was satisfied about
that and clearance was ordered for the next lap of the interminable
cruise.

Had Marcellus been mentally well, he would surely have found these delays
and discomforts insupportable. In his present mood of apathetic detachment,
he endured his experiences with such effortless fortitude that Demetrius's
anxiety about him mounted to alarm. Marcellus had no natural talent for
bearing calmly with annoyances, however trivial; and it worried the
Corinthian to see his high-spirited master growing daily more and more
insensitive to his wretched environment. As for himself, Demetrius was so
exasperated by all this boredom and drudgery that he was ready to jump out of
his skin.

Vainly he tried to kindle a spark of interest in the wool-gathering mind
of Marcellus. The Senator had provided his son with a small but carefully
selected library, classics mostly, and Demetrius had tactfully endeavoured to
make him read; but without success.

For the better part of every fair day, Marcellus would sit silently
staring at the water. Immediately after breakfast he would pick his way
forward through the clutter that littered the deck; and, seating himself on a
coil of anchor-cable near the prow, would remain immobile, with his elbows on
his knees and his chin in his hands, gazing dully out to sea. Demetrius would
give him time to get himself settled, and then he too would saunter forward
with a few scrolls under his arm and sprawl at full length on a battened
hatch close by. Sometimes he would read a paragraph or two aloud and ask a
question. On these occasions, Marcellus would sluggishly return from a remote
distance to make a laconic reply, but it was obvious that he preferred not to
be molested.

Although Demetrius's chief concern was to beguile his master's roving
mind, he himself was finding food for reflection. Never before had he found
opportunity for so much uninterrupted reading. He was particularly absorbed
by the writings of Lucretius. Here, he thought, was a wise man.

'Ever read Lucretius, sir?' he asked, one afternoon, after an hour's
silence between them.

Marcellus slowly turned his head and deliberated the question.

'Indifferently,' he replied, at length.

'Lucretius thinks it is the fear of death that makes men miserable,' went
on Demetrius. 'He's for abolishing that fear.'

'A good idea,' agreed Marcellus, languidly. After a long wait, he asked,
'How does he propose to do it?'

'By assuming that there is no future life,' explained Demetrius.

'That would do it,' drawled Marcellus, 'provided the assumption would stay
where you had put it.'

'You mean, sir, that the assumption might drag its anchor in a gale?'

Marcellus smiled wanly at the seagoing metaphor, and nodded. After a
meditative interval, he said:

'For some men, Demetrius, the fear of death might be palliated by the
belief that nothing more dreadful could possibly happen to them than had
already happened—in their present existence. Perhaps Lucretius has no
warrant for saying that all men fear death. Some have even sought death. As
for me, I am not conscious of that fear; let death bring what it will.... But
does Lucretius have aught to say to the man who fears life?'

Demetrius was sorry he had introduced the conversation, but felt he should
not abandon it abruptly; assuredly not at this dismaying juncture.

'Lucretius concedes that all life is difficult, but becoming less so as
men grow out of savagery to civilization.' Demetrius tried to make this
observation sound optimistic. Marcellus chuckled bitterly.

'"As men grow out of savagery," eh? What makes him think men are growing
out of savagery?' He made an impatient gesture, throwing the idea away with a
toss of his hand. 'Lucretius knew very little about what was going on in the
world. Lived like a mole in a burrow. Lived on his own fat like a bear in
winter. Went wrong in his head at forty, and died. "Growing out of savagery"?
Nonsense! Nothing that ever went on in the jungle can compare with the
bestiality of our life to-day!' Marcellus's voice had mounted from a
monologic mutter to a high-tensioned harangue. '"Growing out of savagery"!'
he shouted. 'You know better than that! YOU WERE OUT THERE!'

Demetrius nodded soberly.

'It was very sad,' he said, 'but I think you have reproached yourself too
much, sir. You had no alternative.'

Marcellus had retreated into his accustomed lethargy, but he suddenly
roused, clenching his fists.

'That's a lie, Demetrius, and you know it! There WAS an alternative! I
could have set the Galilean free! I had enough of those tough fellows from
Minoa with me to have dispersed that mob!'

'Pilate would have court-martialled you, sir. It might have cost you your
life!'

'Well,' soothed Demetrius, gently, 'we should try to forget about it now.
In Athens you can divert your mind, sir. Are you not looking forward with
some pleasure to your studies there?'

There was no reply. Marcellus had turned his back and was again staring at
the sea.

On another day, Demetrius—imprudently, he felt afterwards—
ventured to engage his moody master again in serious talk.

'Lucretius says here that our belief that the gods are concerned with our
human affairs has been the source of nothing but unhappiness to mankind.'

'Of course,' muttered Marcellus, 'and he was a fool for believing that the
gods exist at all.' After the Clytia had swayed to and fro sleepily for a
couple of stadia, he mumbled, 'Lucretius was crazy. He knew too much about
the unknowable. He sat alone—and thought—and thought—until
he lost his mind.... That's what I'm doing, Demetrius.'

* * * * *

In a less perturbed state of mind, Marcellus, thoroughly fatigued by the
long journey, would have been gaily excited over the welcome he received at
the hands of his Athenian host, though this warm reception was not altogether
unexpected.

When Marcus Lucan Gallio was in his early twenties, he had spent a summer
in Athens, studying at the famous old Academy of Hipparchus, and lodging in
the exclusive House of Eupolis which had been conducted by one family for
five generations. Old Georgias Eupolis, his host, treated the patrons of his
establishment as personal guests. You had to be properly vouched for if you
sought accommodation there; but having been reliably introduced, nothing was
too good for you.

The cool hauteur of the House of Eupolis in its attitude toward applicants
was not mere snobbery. Athens was always filled with strangers. The city had
more than a hundred inns, and all but a half-dozen of them were notorious.
The typical tavern-keeper was a pander, a thief, and an all-around rascal;
and, for the most part, his clients were of the same feather. The Athenian
inn that hoped to maintain a reputation for decency had to be critical of its
patrons.

Apparently young Gallio had made a favourable impression, for when he left
the House of Eupolis old Georgias had broken a silver drachma in two, and,
handing one half to Marcus, had attached a little tablet of memoranda to the
other which he had put away for safe-keeping.

'Whoever presents your piece of that drachma, my son,' Georgias had said,
'will be welcome here. You will not lose it, please.'

Arriving now at dusk in the shaded courtyard of the fine old hostelry,
Marcellus had silently handed the broken coin to the churlish porter who had
stepped out of the shadow to question them. Immediately the slave's behaviour
had changed from surly challenge to alert deference. Bowing and scraping he
had made haste to carry the little talisman to his master. In a few moments
the genial proprietor, a well-groomed man of forty, had come down the stone
steps of the vine-clad portico, offering a smile and outstretched hands.
Marcellus had stepped out of the antiquated chariot, announcing that he was
the son of Gallio.

'And how are you addressed, sir?' asked the innkeeper.

'I am a Tribune. My name is Marcellus.'

'Your father is well remembered here, Tribune Marcellus. I hope he is
alive and well.'

'He is, thank you. Senator Gallio sends his greetings to your house.
Though it was a very long time ago, my father hopes his message of affection
for Georgias may still be delivered.'

'Alas! My venerable father has been gone these ten years. But in his name,
I give you welcome. My name is Dion. The House of Eupolis is yours. Come in!
I can see you are weary.'

He turned to Demetrius.

'The porter will help you with your burdens, and show you where you are to
sleep.'

'I wish my slave to share my own quarters,' put in Marcellus.

'It is not customary with us,' said Dion, a bit coolly.

'It is with me,' said Marcellus. 'I have been subjected lately to
considerable hardship,' he explained, 'and I am not well. I do not wish to be
alone. Demetrius will lodge with me.'

Dion, after a momentary debate with himself, gave a shrug of reluctant
consent, and signed to Marcellus to precede him into the house.

'You will be responsible for his conduct,' he said, crisply, as they
mounted the steps.

'Dion,' said Marcellus, pausing at the doorway, 'had this Corinthian his
freedom, he would appear to advantage in any well-bred company. He has been
gently brought up; is a person of culture, and brave withal. The House of
Eupolis will come to no dishonour on his account.'

The well-worn appointments of the spacious andronitis, into which entrance
was had directly from the front door, offered a substantial, homelike
comfort.

'If you will be seated, Marcellus,' advised Dion, recovering his
geniality, 'I shall find the other members of my family. Then—because
you are tired—I shall show you to your rooms. Will you be with us
long?'

Marcellus lifted an indecisive hand.

'For some time, I think,' he said. 'Three months; four; six: I do not
know. I want quiet. Two bedchambers, a small parlour, and a studio. I might
want to amuse myself with some modelling.' Dion said he understood, and would
be able to provide a suitable suite.

'And you will face the garden,' he said, as he moved toward the stairs.
'We have some exceptionally fine roses this year.'

Demetrius entered as Dion disappeared and came to the chair where
Marcellus sat.

'Have you learned, sir, where we are to go?' he asked.

'He will tell us. Remain here until he comes,' said Marcellus,
wearily.

Presently they appeared, and he rose to meet them; Dion's comely wife,
Phoebe, who, having learned the identity of their guest, was genuinely
cordial; and Ino, Dion's widowed elder sister, who thought she saw in
Marcellus a strong resemblance to the young man she had admired so much.

'Once we thought,' said Dion, with a teasing smile for his sister, 'that
something might come of it.'

'But we Greeks are never comfortable anywhere else,' explained Ino, which
made Marcellus wonder if their friendship hadn't been serious.

No one had paid any attention to Demetrius, which was entirely natural,
for Dion had probably advised the family that Marcellus was accompanied by
his slave.

At the first pause in the conversation, Ino turned to him inquiring if he
wasn't a Greek. Demetrius bowed a respectful affirmative.

'Where from?' inquired Ino.

'Corinth.'

'You have been in Athens before?'

'Once.'

'Do you read?'

'Sometimes.'

Ino laughed a little. Glancing toward her brother, she was aware that he
disapproved of this talk. So did Marcellus, she noticed. Demetrius retreated
a step and straightened to a sentry's posture. There was a momentary
constraint before general conversation was resumed.

While they talked, a tall, strikingly beautiful girl sauntered in through
the front door, apparently having just arrived from without the grounds, for
she wore an elaborately fringed and tasselled pink himation, drawn about her
so tightly that it accented her graceful figure. Her mother reached out an
affectionate hand as she came into the circle.

'Our daughter, Theodosia,' she said. 'My child, our guest is Marcellus,
the son of Marcus Gallio, of whom you have often heard your father
speak.'

Theodosia gave him a bright smile. Then her dark, appraising eyes drifted
over his shoulder and surveyed Demetrius with interest. He met her look of
inquiry with what was meant to be a frown. This only added to Theodosia's
curiosity. Obviously she was wondering why no one was inclined to introduce
him.

It was an awkward moment. Marcellus did not want to hurt Demetrius. He
felt it would be cruel to remark, casually, 'That man is my slave.' He
heartily wished afterwards that he had done so, instead of merely trying to
be humane.

'This is Demetrius,' he said.

Theodosia took a step forward, looked up into Demetrius's face, and gave
him a slow smile that approved of him first with her candid eyes and then
with pouting lips. Demetrius gravely bowed with stiff dignity. Theodosia's
eyes were puzzled. Then, after a little hesitation—for unmarried women
were not accustomed to shaking hands with men, unless they were close
relatives—she offered him her hand. Demetrius stared straight ahead and
pretended not to see it.

'He's a slave,' muttered her father.

'Oh,' said Theodosia. 'I didn't know.' Then she looked up into Demetrius's
eyes again. He met her look, this time, curiously. 'I'm sorry,' she murmured.
After an instant she stammered in a tone that was almost intimate, 'It is too
bad that we have to—to act like this—I think. I hope we have
not—I didn't mean—' She floundered to a stop as Demetrius, with
an understanding smile, nodded that it was all right, and she wasn't to fret
about it.

'We will show you to your suite now,' said Dion, abruptly.

Marcellus bowed to the women and followed his host, Demetrius marching
stiffly behind him. Theodosia stared after them until they disappeared. Then
she gave a quick little sigh and turned a self-defensive smile on her
aunt.

'Never mind, child,' murmured Ino, sensibly. 'How could you know he was a
slave; certainly wasn't dressed like one; certainly didn't look like one. And
we don't have slaves standing about in here.'

'Well—it shouldn't have happened,' said Phoebe, crossly. 'You'll
have to be careful now. If he takes any advantage of this, you must snub
him—properly!'

'Wasn't he snubbed—properly?' wondered Theodosia.

'With words, perhaps,' remarked Aunt Ino with a knowing grin.

* * * * *

After a week, Demetrius, who had counted heavily upon this sojourn in
Athens to relieve his master's deep dejection, began to lose heart.

Upon their arrival at the House of Eupolis, Marcellus had been welcomed so
warmly, and had responded to these amenities so gratefully, that Demetrius
felt they had already gone a long way toward solving the distressing
problem.

The new environment was perfect. Their sunny rooms on the ground floor
looked out upon a gay flower-garden. In their stone-flagged little peristyle,
comfortable chairs extended an invitation to quiet reading. Surely no one at
all interested in sculpture could have asked for a better opportunity than
the studio afforded.

But it was of no use. Marcellus's melancholy was too heavy to be lifted.
He was not interested in Demetrius's suggestion that they should visit the
Acropolis or Mars' Hill or some of the celebrated galleries.

'Shall we not stroll down to the agora?' Demetrius suggested, on the
second morning. 'It's always interesting to see the country people marketing
their produce.'

'Why don't you go?' countered Marcellus.

'I do not like to leave you alone, sir.'

'That's true,' nodded Marcellus. 'I dislike being alone.'

He wouldn't even go to see the Temple of Heracles, directly across the
street, within a boy's arrow of where he sat slowly examining his fingers.
Demetrius expected that he would surely want to show some civility to the
Eupolis family. Dion had called twice, frankly perplexed to find his guest so
preoccupied and taciturn. Theodosia had appeared, one morning, at the far end
of the garden; and Marcellus, observing her, had come in from the peristyle,
apparently to avoid speaking to her.

Demetrius thought he knew what was keeping Marcellus away from the Eupolis
family. He never could tell when one of these mysterious seizures would
arrive to grip him, until the sweat streamed down his face, in the midst of
which he would stun somebody with the incomprehensible query, 'Were you out
there?' Not much wonder he didn't care to have a friendly chat with
Theodosia.

True, it was not absolutely necessary for Marcellus to make further
connections with his host's family. Meals were sent over to their suite.
Household slaves kept their rooms in order. Demetrius had practically nothing
to do but wait—and keep a watchful but not too solicitous eye on his
master. It was very trying, and he was bored almost to death.

On the morning of the eighth day, he resolved to do something about
it.

'If you are not quite ready to do any modelling, sir,' he began, 'would
you object if I amused myself with some experiments in clay?'

'Not at all,' mumbled Marcellus. 'I know this must be very tiresome for
you. By all means, get the clay.'

So that afternoon, Demetrius dragged the tall, stout modelling-table into
the centre of the studio and began some awkward attempts to mould a little
statuette. After a while, Marcellus came in from his perpetual stupor in the
peristyle and sat down in the corner to watch. Presently he chuckled. It was
not a pleasantly mirthful chuckle, but ever so much better than none.
Realizing that his early adventure in modelling was at least affording some
wholesome entertainment, Demetrius persisted soberly in the production of a
bust that would have made a dog laugh.

'Let me show you.' Marcellus came over to the table and took up the clay.
'To begin with, it's too dry,' he said, with something like critical
interest. 'Get some water. If you're going to do this at all, you may as well
give yourself a chance.'

Now, thought Demetrius, we have solved our problem! He was so happy he
could hardly keep his joy out of his face, but he knew that Marcellus would
resent any felicitations. All that afternoon they worked together; or rather,
Marcellus worked, and Demetrius watched. That evening Marcellus ate his
supper with relish and went early to bed.

After breakfast the next morning, it delighted Demetrius to see his master
stroll into the studio. He thought he would leave him alone. Perhaps it would
be better for him to work without any distraction.

Half an hour later Marcellus came out to the peristyle and sat down. He
was pale. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. His hands were
trembling. Demetrius turned away with a deep sigh. That night he decided to
do the thing he had resolved to do if all other expedients failed. It would
be drastic treatment. In Marcellus's mental condition, it might indeed be the
one tragic move that would put him definitely over the border line. But he
couldn't go on this way! It was worth a trial.

After Marcellus had retired, Demetrius went over to the kitchen and asked
Glycon, the steward, whether he could tell him the name of a first-class
weaver, as he wanted to have a garment mended for his master. Glycon was
prompt with the information. Of course! A skilful weaver? Who but old
Benjamin? That would be down near the Theatre of Dionysus. Anybody could tell
you, once you got to the theatre.

'Benjamin sounds like a Jew,' remarked Demetrius.

'So he is,' nodded Glycon, 'and a fine old man; a scholar, they say.'
Glycon laughed. 'There's ONE Jew not interested in getting rich. I've heard
it said that if Benjamin doesn't like your looks he won't do business with
you.'

'Perhaps he wouldn't care to talk with a slave,' wondered Demetrius.

'Oh, that wouldn't matter to Benjamin,' Glycon declared. 'Why should it?
Haven't his own people rattled plenty of chains?'

* * * * *

All the next day until mid-afternoon, Marcellus sat hunched in his big
chair outside the doorway, staring dully at the garden. In the adjacent
studio Demetrius disinterestedly toyed with the soft clay, listening for any
movement in the little peristyle. Twice he had gone out, with an assumption
of cheerfulness, to ask questions which he thought might stir his moody
master's curiosity about his absurd attempts at modelling; but there was no
response.

The situation had now become so desperate that Demetrius felt it was high
time to make the dangerous experiment on which—if everything else
failed—he had resolved. His heart beat rapidly as he turned away from
the table and went to his own room, and his hands were trembling as he
reached into the depths of the large sailcloth bag in which the cherished
Galilean garment had been stowed.

It had been many weeks since he had seen it himself. He had had no privacy
on the Clytia, and the enchanted robe that had so profoundly affected
Marcellus's mind had not been unpacked since they had left Rome.

Sitting down on the edge of his couch, Demetrius reverently unfolded it
across his knees. Again he had the strange sensation of tranquillity that had
come to him when he had handled the robe in Jerusalem. It was a peculiar sort
of calmness; not the calmness of inertia or indifference, but the calmness of
self-containment. He was stilled—but strengthened.

There had never been any room in his mind for superstition. He had always
disdained the thought that any sort of power could be resident in an
inanimate object. People who believed in the magical qualities of insensate
things were either out-and-out fools, or had got themselves into an emotional
state where they were the easy victims of their own inflamed imagination. He
had no patience with otherwise sensible men who carried lucky stones in their
pockets. It had comforted him to feel that although he was a slave his mind
was not in bondage.

Well, be all that as it might, the solid fact remained that when he laid
his hands upon the Galilean's robe, his agitation ceased. His nervous anxiety
vanished. After the previous occasion when he had sensed this, he had told
himself that the extraordinary experience could be accounted for in the most
practical, common-sense terms. This robe had been worn by a man of immense
courage; effortless, inherent, built-in, automatic courage! Demetrius had
seen this Jesus on trial, serene and self-assured, with the whole world
arrayed against him, with death staring him in the face, and not one
protesting friend in sight. Was it not natural that his robe should become a
symbol of fortitude?

Having far too much time on his hands during these recent weeks, Demetrius
had deliberated upon this phenomenon, until he had arrived at the reasonable
explanation of his own attitude toward the thorn-torn garment: it was a
symbol of moral strength, just as his mother's ring was a symbol of her
tender affection.

But now!—with the robe in his suddenly steadied hands—he
wasn't so sure about the soundness of his theory. There was a power clinging
to this homespun Galilean robe which no cool rational argument was fit to
cope with. Indeed, it seemed rather impudent to attempt an analysis of its
claims upon his emotions.

Folding the robe across his arm, Demetrius walked confidently to the open
door. Marcellus slowly turned his head with a listless expression of inquiry.
Then his eyes gradually widened with terror, his face a contorted mask of
amazement and alarm. He swallowed convulsively and slowly bent backward over
the broad arm of his chair, recoiling from the thing that had destroyed his
peace.

'I have heard of a good weaver, sir,' said Demetrius, calmly. 'If you have
no objections, I shall have him mend this robe.'

'I told you'—Marcellus's dry throat drained the life out of his
husky tone—'I ordered you to destroy—that thing!' His voice rose,
thin and shrill. 'Take it away! Burn it! Bury the ashes!' Pulling himself to
his feet, he staggered to the corner of the peristyle, with the feeble steps
of an invalid; and, hooking an arm around the pillar, he cried, 'I had not
thought this of you, Demetrius! You have known the nature of my distress! And
now, you come coolly confronting me with this torturing reminder; this
haunted thing! I tell you, you have gone too far with your callous
disobedience! I had always treated you as a friend—you who were my
slave! I am finished with you! I shall sell you—in the market-place!'
Thoroughly spent with rage, Marcellus threw himself upon the stone bench.
'Leave me,' he muttered, hoarsely. 'I can bear no more! Please go away!'

Demetrius slowly and silently withdrew into the house, shaking his head.
His experiment had failed. It had been exactly the wrong thing to do. The
patient, wearisome game of restoring Marcellus was now lost. Indeed, he
seemed quite out of reach.

Returning to his own small bedchamber, Demetrius sat down, with the robe
still clutched tightly in his arms, and wondered what should be the next step
to take. Curiously enough, Marcellus's complete breakdown had not upset him:
he was unspeakably sorry, but self-controlled. The hysterical threat of being
sold in the agora did not disturb him. Marcellus would not do that. Nor was
he going to permit himself to be offended by the savagery of his master's
rebuke. If ever Marcellus needed him, it was now.

Clearly the next thing to be done was to do nothing. Marcellus must be
given time to compose himself. There would be no sense in trying to reason
with him in his present state. It would be equally futile to plead for
pardon. Marcellus had far better be left alone for a while.

Laying the folded robe across the top of the capacious gunny-bag,
Demetrius slipped quietly out through the front door and strolled through the
cypress grove toward the street. Deeply preoccupied, he did not see
Theodosia, who was sitting in the swing, until he was too close to retreat
unobserved. She straightened from her lounging posture, put down the trifle
of needlework beside her, and beckoned to him. He was quite lonely enough to
have welcomed her friendly gesture, but he disliked the idea of compromising
her. Theodosia was evidently a very wilful girl, accustomed to treating the
conventions with saucy indifference.

With undisguised reluctance, he walked toward the swing; and, at a little
distance, drew up stiffly to listen to whatever she might want to say. He was
far from pleased by the prospect of getting them both into trouble, but there
was no denying that Theodosia made a very pretty picture, in the graceful
white peplos girdled with a wide belt of panelled silver, a scarlet ribbon
about her head that accented the whiteness of her brow, and gaily beaded
sandals much too fragile for actual service.

'Why is it,' she demanded, with a comradely smile, 'that we see nothing of
your master? Have we offended him? Does he disapprove of us? Tell me, please.
I am dying of curiosity.'

'My master has not been well,' replied Demetrius, soberly.

'Ah, but there's more to it than that.' Theodosia's dark eyes were
narrowed knowingly as she slowly nodded her blue-black head. 'You're troubled
too, my friend. Needn't tell me you're not. You are worried about him. Is
that not so?'

It was evident that this girl was used to having her own way with people.
She was so radiant with vitality that even her impudence was forgivable.
Demetrius suddenly surprised them both with a candid confession.

'It is true,' he admitted. 'I am worried—beyond the telling!'

'Is there anything that we can do?' Theodosia's eager eyes were sincerely
sympathetic.

'No,' said Demetrius, hopelessly.

'He has puzzled me,' persisted Theodosia. 'When you arrived, the other
night, Marcellus struck me as a person who was trying to get away from
something. He didn't really want to talk to us. You know that. He was polite
enough, but very anxious to be off. I can't think it was because he did not
like us. He had the air of one wanting to escape. It's clear enough that he
is not hiding from the law; for surely this is no place for a fugitive.'

Demetrius did not immediately reply, though Theodosia had paused several
times to give him a chance to say something. He had been busy thinking. As he
stood listening to this bright girl's intuitive speculations, it occurred to
him that she might be able to offer some sensible advice, if she knew what
the problem was. Indeed, it would be better for her to know the facts than to
harbour a suspicion that Marcellus was a rascal. He knew that Theodosia was
reading in his perplexed eyes a half-formed inclination to be frank. She gave
him an encouraging smile.

'Let's have it, Demetrius,' she murmured, intimately. 'I won't tell.'

'It is a long story,' he said, moodily. 'And it would be most imprudent
for the daughter of Eupolis to be seen in an intimate conversation with a
slave.' He lowered his voice confidentially. 'Your father is already annoyed,
you know, because you made the mistake of treating me cordially.'

Theodosia's pretty lips puckered thoughtfully.

'I do not think anyone is watching us,' she said, glancing cautiously
toward the house. 'If you will walk briskly down the street, as if setting
out on an errand, and turn to the right at the first corner, and again to the
right, at the next one, you will come to a high-walled garden behind that old
temple over there.'

Demetrius shook his head doubtfully.

'Priests are notorious spies,' he said. 'At least they are in Rome, and it
was true of them in Corinth. Doubtless it is the same here in Athens. I
should think a temple would be about the last place that people would go for
a private talk. We might find ourselves under suspicion of discussing a
plot.'

Theodosia flushed a little, and gave him a mischievous smile.

'We will not be suspected of sedition,' she promised. 'I shall see to
that. Two very good friends will have come to the garden—not to arrange
for poisoning the Prefect's porridge, but to exchange pleasant
compliments.'

Demetrius's heart quickened, but he frowned.

'Don't you think,' he asked, prudently, 'that you are taking a good deal
for granted by trusting so much in the honesty of a slave?'

'Yes,' admitted Theodosia. 'Go quickly now. I'll join you presently.'

Deeply stirred by the anticipation of this private interview, but obliged
to view it with some anxiety, Demetrius obeyed. Theodosia's almost masculine
directness assured him that she was quite beyond a cheap flirtation, but
there was no denying her amiable regard for him. Well, he would know, soon
enough, whether she was really concerned about Marcellus, or enlivening a
dull afternoon with a bit of adventure. It was conceivable, of course, that
both of these things might be true.

As he neared the old wall, Demetrius firmly pressed his grey head-band
down over the ear that denied him a right to talk on terms of equality with a
free woman. It gave him a rather rakish appearance which, he felt, might not
be altogether inappropriate if this meeting was to be staged as a rendezvous.
Sauntering in through the open gate, he strolled to the far end of the arbour
and sat down on the commodious marble lectus. A well-nourished priest, in a
dirty brown cassock, gave him an indifferent nod, and resumed his hoeing.

He did not have long to wait. She was coming out of the temple, into the
cloister, swinging along with her independent head held high. Demetrius stood
to wait for her. It was hard to break an old habit, and his posture was
stiffly conventional.

'Sit down!' she whispered. 'And don't look so serious.'

He did not have to dissemble a smile as he obeyed her, for her command had
been amusing enough. She dropped down close beside him on the stone seat and
gave him both hands. The priest leaned on his hoe and sanctioned their
meeting with a knowing leer. Then he looked a bit puzzled. Presently he
dropped the hoe, deliberately cut a large red rose, and waddled toward them,
his shifty little eyes alive with enquiry. Affecting an almost sinister smile
he presented the rose to Theodosia. She thanked him prettily and raising it
to her face inhaled luxuriously. The priest, with his curiosity about them
still unsatisfied, was backing away.

'Put your arm around me,' she muttered, deep in the rose, 'and hold me
tight—as if you meant it.'

Demetrius complied, so gently, yet so competently, that the priest wagged
his shaggy head and ambled back to his weeds. Then, apparently deciding that
he had done enough work for one day, he negligently trailed the hoe behind
him as he plodded away to disappear within the cloister, leaving them in sole
possession of the quiet garden.

Reluctantly withdrawing his arm as Theodosia straightened, Demetrius
remarked, with a twinkle, 'Do you suppose that holy beast might still be
watching us—through some private peep-hole?'

'Quite unlikely,' doubted Theodosia, with a gently reproving smile.

'Perhaps we should take no risks,' he cautioned, drawing her closer.

She leaned back in his arm without protest.

'Now,' she said, expectantly, 'begin at the beginning and tell me all
about it. The Tribune is afraid of something, or somebody. Who is it? What is
it?'

Demetrius was finding it difficult to launch upon his narrative.
Theodosia's persuasive warmth was distracting his mind.

'You are very kind to me,' he said, softly.

'I should have had a brother,' she murmured. 'Let's pretend you are he.
You know, I feel that way about you, as if we'd known each other a long
time.'

Resolutely pulling himself together, Demetrius began his story, not at the
beginning but at the end.

'Marcellus,' he declared soberly, 'is afraid of a certain robe—a
brown, homespun, blood-stained garment—that was worn by a man he was
commanded to crucify. The man was innocent, and Marcellus knows it.'

'And how did he come by the robe?' queried Theodosia.

It was, as he had threatened, a long story; but Demetrius told it all,
beginning with Minoa and the journey to Jerusalem. Frequently Theodosia
detained him with a question.

'But Demetrius,' she interrupted, turning to look up into his face, 'what
was there about this Jesus that made him seem to you such a great man? You
say he was so lonely and disappointed, that morning, when the crowd wanted
him as their king: but what had he done to make so many people admire him so
much?'

Demetrius had to admit he didn't know.

'It is hard to explain,' he stammered. 'You had a feeling that he was
sorry for all these people. This may sound very foolish, Theodosia; but it
was as if they were homeless little children crying for something,
and—'

'Something he couldn't give them?' she wondered, thoughtfully.

'There you have it!' declared Demetrius. 'It was something he couldn't
give them, because they were too inexperienced to understand what they
needed. Maybe this will seem a crazy thing to say: it was almost as if this
Galilean had come from some far-away country where people were habitually
honest and friendly and did not quarrel; some place where the streets were
clean and no one was greedy, and there were no beggars, no thieves, no
fights, no courts, no prisons, no soldiers; no rich, no poor.'

'You know there's no place like that,' sighed Theodosia.

'They asked him, at his trial—I'll tell you about that,
presently—whether he was a king; and he said he had a
kingdom—but—it was not in this world.'

Theodosia glanced up, startled, and studied his eyes.

'Now don't tell me you believe anything like that,' she murmured,
disappointedly. 'You don't look like a person who would—-'

'I'm not!' he protested. 'I don't know what I believe about this Jesus. I
never saw anyone like him; that's as far as I can go.'

'That's far enough,' she sighed. 'I was afraid you were going to tell me
he was one of the gods.'

'I take it you don't believe in the gods,' grinned Demetrius.

'Of course not! But do go on with your story. I shouldn't have
interrupted.'

Demetrius continued. Sometimes it was almost as if he were talking to
himself, as he reviewed the tragic events of that sorry day. He relived his
strange emotions as the darkness settled over Jerusalem at mid-afternoon.
Theodosia was very quiet, but her heart was beating hard and her eyes were
misty.

'And he didn't try to defend himself—at all?' she asked, huskily;
and Demetrius, shaking his head, went on to tell her of the gambling for the
robe, and what had happened that night at the Insula when Marcellus had been
forced to put it on.

When he had finished his strange story, the sun was low. Theodosia rose
slowly, and they walked arm in arm toward the cloister.

'Poor Marcellus,' she murmured. 'It would have to be something very
exciting indeed, to divert his mind.'

'Well, I've tried everything I can think of,' sighed Demetrius. 'And now
I'm afraid he has completely lost confidence in me.'

'He thinks the robe is—haunted?'

Demetrius made no answer to that; and Theodosia, tugging at his arm,
impulsively brought him to a stop. She looked into his eyes bewildered.

'But—YOU don't believe that! Do you?' she demanded.

'For my unhappy master, Theodosia, the robe is haunted. He is convinced of
it, and that makes it so—for him.'

'And what do YOU think? Is it haunted for YOU?'

He avoided her eyes for a moment.

'What I am going to say may sound silly. When I was a very little boy, and
had fallen down and hurt myself, I would run into the house and find my
mother. She would not bother to ask me what in the world I had been doing to
bruise myself that way, or scold me for not being more careful. She would
take me in her arras and hold me until I had done weeping, and everything was
all right again. Perhaps my skinned knee still hurt, but I could bear it
now.' He looked down tenderly into Theodosia's soft eyes. 'You see, my mother
was always definitely on my side, no matter how I came by my mishaps.'

'Go on,' she said. 'I'm following you.'

'Often I have thought—' He interrupted himself to interpolate,
'Slaves get very lonely, my friend!—Often I have thought there should
be, for grown-up people, some place where they could go, when badly hurt, and
find the same kind of assurance that a little child experiences in his
mother's arms. Now this robe—it isn't haunted, for me, but—'

'I think I understand, Demetrius.'

After a moment's silence, they separated, leaving as they had arrived.
Demetrius went out through the gate in the old wall. His complete review of
the mysterious story had had a peculiar effect on him. Everything seemed
unreal, as if he had spent an hour in a dream-world.

The clatter of the busy street, when he had turned the corner, jangled him
out of his reverie. It occurred to him—and he couldn't help
smiling—that he had spent a long time with his arm around the highly
desirable Theodosia, almost oblivious of her physical charms. And he knew she
had not been piqued by his fraternal attitude toward her. The story of
Jesus—inadequately as Demetrius had related it out of his limited
information—was of an emotional quality that had completely eclipsed
their natural interest in each other's affections. Apparently the Galilean
epic, even when imperfectly understood, had the capacity for lifting a
friendship up to very high ground.

* * * * *

It was quite clear now to Marcellus that the time for decisive action had
arrived. Life, under these humiliating conditions, was no longer to be
endured.

He had not fully shared his father's earnest hope that a sojourn in
Athens, with plenty of leisure and no embarrassing social responsibilities,
would relieve his mental strain. He knew that it would be carrying his burden
along with him.

It was possible, of course, that time might dim the tragic picture that
filled his mind. He would pursue a few distracting studies, give his restless
hands some entertaining employment, and try to resume command of his
thoughts.

But it was hopeless. He had no interest in anything! Since his arrival in
Athens, far from experiencing any easing of the painful nervous tension, he
had been losing ground. The dread of meeting people and having to talk with
them had deepened into a relentless obsession. He was afraid to stir from the
house. He even shunned the gardeners.

And now he had gone to pieces. In an utter abandonment of all emotional
control, he had made a sorry spectacle of himself in the sight of his loyal
slave. Demetrius could hardly be expected to maintain his patience or respect
much longer.

This afternoon, Marcellus had been noisy with his threats and
recriminations. At the rate he was going to pieces, by to-morrow afternoon he
might commit some deed of violence. It was better to have done with this
dreadful business before he brought harm to anyone else.

His people at home would be grieved when they learned the sad tidings, but
bereavement was much easier to bear than disgrace. As he sat there in the
peristyle, with his head in his hands, Marcellus made a mental leave-taking
of those he had loved best. He saw Lucia, in the shaded pergola, her slim
legs folded under as she sat quietly reading. He briefly visited his
distinguished father in his library. He didn't worry so much about his
father's reception of the bad news. Senator Gallio would not be surprised; he
would be relieved to know that the matter was settled. He went on to his
mother's room, and was glad to find her quietly sleeping. He was thankful
that his imagination had at least spared him the anguish of a tearful
parting.

He bade good-bye to Diana. They were together in the pergola, as on that
night when he had left for Minoa. He had taken her in his arms, but rather
diffidently, for he felt he would not be coming back; and it wasn't quite
honest to make promises. This time he held Diana tightly—and kissed
her.

Demetrius had unquestionably deceived him about a dagger he had bought in
Corfu. Previous to this, the silver-handled dagger he had carried for years
had been lost somehow on the Vestris. Marcellus had doubted that. Demetrius,
alarmed over his melancholy state, had taken the weapon from him. However,
the theft had been well enough meant. Marcellus had not pressed the matter;
had even consented unprotestingly to the theory that the dagger was lost. So
at Corfu he had found another. It was less ornamental than serviceable. Next
day after leaving Corfu, it was missing. Marcellus had thought it unlikely
that any of his fellow passengers would steal a dagger of such insignificant
value. Demetrius had it: there was no question about that. Very likely, if he
searched his slave's gunny-sack, he would find both of them.

Of course, it was possible that Demetrius might have thrown the weapons
overboard, but he was so scrupulously honest that this seemed improbable.
Demetrius would hold them against the arrival of a day when he thought it
safe to restore them.

Unbuckling the belt of his tunic and casting it aside, Marcellus entered
the Corinthian's small bedchamber, and saw the gunny-sack on his couch. His
hands were trembling as he moved towards it; for it was no light matter to be
so close to death.

Now he stopped! There it was—the THING! He slowly retreated and
leaned against the wall. Ah! so the ingenious Demetrius had anticipated his
decision! He was using the robe to safeguard his stolen daggers!

Marcellus clenched his hands and growled. He would have it out with this
Thing!

Resolutely forcing his feet to obey, he moved slowly to the couch and
stretched out a shaking hand. The sweat was pouring down his face and his
legs were so weak he could hardly stand. Suddenly he brought his hand down
with a violent movement as if he were capturing a living thing.

For a long moment Marcellus stood transfixed, his fingers buried in the
dreaded, hateful garment. Then, sitting down on the edge of the couch, he
slowly drew the robe toward him. He stared at it uncomprehendingly; held it
up to the light; rubbed it softly against his bare arm. He couldn't analyse
his peculiar sensations, but something very strange had happened to him. His
agitation was stilled. Rising, as if from a dream, he laid the robe over his
arm and went out into the peristyle. He sat down and draped it across the
broad arms of his chair. Smoothing it gently with his hand, he felt a curious
elation; an indefinable sense of relief. A great load had been lifted. He
wasn't afraid any more!

Hot tears gathered in his eyes and overflowed.

After a while he rose and carried the robe back to Demetrius's room,
replacing it where he had found it. Unaccustomed to his new sense of
wellbeing, he was puzzled about what to do next. He went into the studio and
laughed as he looked at Demetrius's poor little statuette. The house wasn't
quite large enough to hold him; so, donning his toga, he went out into the
garden.

It was there that his slave found him.

Demetrius had approached the house with a feeling of dread. He knew
Marcellus well enough to surmise that he wasn't going to be able to endure
much more humiliation.

Entering the house quietly, he looked into his master's bedchamber and
into the studio. Then he went out to the peristyle. His heart sank.

Then he saw Marcellus sauntering in the garden. He walked toward him
eagerly, realizing instantly that a great change had come over him.

'You are feeling better, sir, are you not?' he said, staring into his face
incredulously.

Marcellus's lips twitched as he smiled.

'I have been away from you a long time, Demetrius,' he said,
unsteadily.

'Yes, sir. I need not tell you how glad I am that you have returned. Is
there anything I can do for you?'

'Did you tell me that you had heard of a good weaver; one who might mend
that robe?'

Enlightenment shone in Demetrius's eyes.

'Yes, sir!'

'After we have had our supper,' said Marcellus, 'we will try to find him.'
He sauntered slowly toward the house, Demetrius following him, his heart
almost bursting with exultation. When they reached the peristyle, Demetrius
could no longer keep silent.

'Don't you know that's a very crazy thing to say?' demanded Marcellus.

'Yes, sir. I have tried to account for it. I saw him die, you know. He was
very brave. Perhaps I invested this robe with my own admiration for his
courage. When I look at it, I am ashamed of my own troubles, and I want to
behave with fortitude, and—'

Waking at dawn, Marcellus was ecstatic to find himself
unencumbered by the weight that so long oppressed him. It was the first time
he had ever realized the full meaning of freedom.

Pausing at Demetrius's open door he noted with satisfaction that his loyal
slave, whose anxiety had been as painful as his own, was still soundly
sleeping. That was good. Demetrius deserved a rest—and a forthright
apology, too.

Not since that summer when, at fifteen, Marcellus was slowly convalescing
from a serious illness, had he experienced so keen an awareness of life's
elemental properties. The wasting fever had left him weak and emaciated; but
through those days of his recovery his senses had been abnormally alert.
Especially in the early morning: all colours were luminous, all sounds were
intensified, all scents were heady concentrates of familiar fragrances.

Until then, the birds chirped and whistled, each species shrieking its own
identifying cry; but it was silly to say that they sang. Now the birds sang,
their songs melodious and choral. The dawn breeze was saturated with a subtle
blend of new-mown clover and sweetish honeysuckle, of jasmine and narcissus,
welcoming him back to life's brightness and goodness. An occasional cool wisp
of dank leaf-mould and fresh-spaded earth momentarily sobered him; and then
he would rejoice that he had escaped their more intimate acquaintance.

For those few days, as a youth, Marcellus had been impressed by his
kinship with all created things. It stilled and steadied his spirit to find
himself so closely integrated with Nature. Then, as he regained his bodily
vigour, this peculiar sensitivity gradually passed from him. He still enjoyed
the colours and perfumes of the flowers, the liquid calls of the birds, and
the insistent hum of little winged creatures; but his brief understanding of
their language was lost in the confusion of ordinary work and play. Nor did
he expect ever to reclaim that transient rapture. Perhaps it could be
experienced only when one's physical resources had ebbed to low tide, and
one's fragility had made common cause with such other fragile things as
hummingbirds and heliotrope.

This morning, to his happy amazement, that higher awareness had returned,
filling him with a mystifying exaltation. He had somehow recaptured that
indefinable ecstasy.

It had rained softly in the night, bathing the tall sycamores until their
gaily fluttering leaves reflected glints of gold. The air was heavy with the
scent of refreshed roses. Perhaps it was on such a morning, mused Marcellus,
that Aristophanes had composed his famous apostrophe to the Birds of
Athens.

Doubtless it was inevitable that yesterday afternoon's strange experience
should have produced a sequence of varied reactions. The immediate effect of
his dealings with the robe had been a feeling of awe and bewilderment,
quickly followed by an exhilaration bordering on hysteria. But the protracted
nervous strain had been so relentless, and had taken such a heavy toll, that
this sudden release of tension had produced an almost paralysing fatigue.
Marcellus had gone supperless to bed and had slept like a little child.

Rousing, wide-awake, with an exultant sense of complete cleansing and
renewal, he had wished he could lift his eyes and hands in gratitude to some
kindly spirit who might be credited with this ineffable gift. As he sat there
in the rose-arbour, he mentally called the roll of the classic gods and
goddesses, questing a name worthy of homage; but he could think of none who
deserved his intellectual respect, much less his reverence. He had been
singularly blest; but the gift was anonymous. For the first time in his life,
Marcellus envied all naïve souls who believed in the gods. As for himself, he
was incapable of belief in them.

But this amazing experience with the robe was something that could not be
dismissed with a mere 'I do not understand; so, let it be considered a closed
incident.'

No, it was a problem that had to be dealt with, somehow. Marcellus gave
himself up to serious reflection. First of all, the robe had symbolized that
whole shameful affair at Jerusalem. The man who wore it had been innocent of
any crime. He had been unfairly tried, unjustly sentenced, and dishonourably
put to death. He had borne his pain with admirable fortitude. Was 'fortitude'
the word? No, murmured Marcellus, the Galilean had something else besides
that. The best that 'fortitude' could accomplish was courageous endurance.
This Jesus had not merely endured. It was rather as if he had confronted his
tragedy!—HAD GONE TO MEET IT!

And then, that night at the Insula, dully sobering from a whole day's
drunkenness, Marcellus had gradually roused to a realization that he—in
the face of this incredible bravery—had carried out his brutal work as
if the victim were an ordinary criminal. The utter perfidy of his behaviour
had suddenly swept over him like a storm, that night at Pilate's banquet. It
was not enough that he had joined hands with cowards and scoundrels to
crucify this Jesus. He had consented to ridicule the dead hero by putting on
his blood-stained robe for the entertainment of a drunken crowd. Not much
wonder that the torturing memory of his own part in the crime had festered,
and burned, and poisoned his spirit! Yes, that part of it was understandable.
And because the robe had been the instrument of his torture, it was natural,
he thought, that he should have developed an almost insane abhorrence of
it!

Yesterday afternoon its touch had healed his wounded mind. How was he to
evaluate this astounding fact? Perhaps it was more simple than it seemed:
perhaps he was making it all too difficult. He had shrunk from this robe
because it symbolized his great mistake and misfortune. Now, compelled by a
desperate circumstance to lay his hands upon the robe, his obsession had
vanished! Was this effect entirely imaginary? or was the robe actually
possessed of magical power?

This latter suggestion was absurd, preposterous! It offended every
principle he had lived by! To admit of such a theory, he would have to toss
overboard all his reasonable beliefs in an impersonal, law-abiding universe,
and become a confessed victim of superstition.

No—he could not and would not do that! There was no magic in this
robe! It was a mere tool of his imagination. For many weeks it had symbolized
his crime and punishment. Now it symbolized his release. His remorse had run
its full measure through the hourglass and the time had come for him to put
his crime behind him. The touch of the robe in his hands had simply marked
the moment for the expiration of his mental punishment. He was not going to
admit that the robe was invested with power.

To-day he would find that weaver and have the robe repaired. He would at
least show it so much honour and respect. It was nothing more than a garment,
but it deserved to be handled with gratitude and reverence. Yes, he would go
that far! He could honestly say that he reverenced this robe!

Demetrius had joined him now, apologetic for tardiness.

'I am glad you could sleep,' smiled Marcellus. 'You have had much worry on
my account. In my unhappiness, I have been rough with you. You have been
truly understanding, Demetrius, and immensely patient. I am sorry for the way
I have treated you, especially yesterday. That was too bad!'

'Please, sir!' pleaded Demetrius. 'I am so glad you are well again!'

'I think we will try to find your weaver, to-day, and see if he can mend
the robe.'

'Yes, sir. Shall I order your breakfast now?'

'In a moment. Demetrius, in your honest opinion, is that robe
haunted?'

'It is very mysterious, sir.' Demetrius was choosing his words
deliberately. 'I had hoped that you might be able to throw a little light on
it. May I ask what conclusion YOU have come to?'

Marcellus sighed and shook his head.

'The more I think about it,' he said, slowly, 'the more bewildering it
is!' He rose, and moved toward the house.

'Well, sir,' volunteered Demetrius, at his elbow, 'it isn't as if we were
REQUIRED to comprehend it. There are plenty of things that we are not
expected to understand. This may be one of them.'

* * * * *

Across the street from the main entrance to the sprawling open-air Theatre
of Dionysus, there was a huddle of small bazaars dealing in such trifles as
the playgoers might pick up on their way in: sweetmeats, fans, and cushions.
At the end of the row stood Benjamin's little shop, somewhat aloof from its
frivolous neighbours. There was nothing on the door to indicate the nature of
Benjamin's business; nothing but his name, burned into a cypress plank, and
that not plainly legible; dryly implying that if you didn't know Benjamin was
a weaver, and the oldest and most skilful weaver in Athens, you weren't
likely to be a desirable client.

Within, the shop was unbearably stuffy. Not a spacious room to begin with,
it contained (besides the two looms, one of them the largest Marcellus had
ever seen) an ungainly spinning-wheel, a huge carding device, and bulky
stores of raw materials; reed baskets heaped high with silk cocoons, big
bales of cotton, bulging bags of wool.

Most of the remaining floor space was occupied by the commodious
worktable, on which Benjamin sat, cross-legged, deeply absorbed in the fine
hem he was stitching around the flowing sleeve of an exquisitely wrought
chiton. He was shockingly lean and stooped, and his bald head seemed much too
large for his frail body. A long white beard covered his breast. His shabby
robe was obviously not worn as a specimen of his handicraft. Behind him,
against the wall and below the window-ledge, there was a long shelf well
filled with scrolls whose glossy spools showed much handling.

Benjamin did not look up until he had reached the end of his thread; then,
straightening with a painful grimace, he peered at his new clients with a
challenge that wrinkled his long nose and curled his lip, after the manner of
an overloaded, protesting camel. Except for the beady brightness of his
deeply caverned eyes, Benjamin was as old as Jehovah—and as cross, too,
if his scowl told the truth about his disposition.

Benjamin puckered his leathery old mouth unpleasantly, sniffed, licked his
thumb, and twisted a fresh thread to a sharp point.

'I have better things to do,' he declaimed, gutturally, 'than darn holes
in old coats.' He raised his needle to the light, and squintingly probed for
its eye. 'Go to a sailmaker,' he added, somewhat less gruffly.

'Perhaps I should not have bothered you with so small a matter,' admitted
Marcellus, unruffled. 'I am aware that this garment is of little practical
value, but it is a keepsake, and I had hoped to have it put in order by
someone who knows his job.'

'Keepsake, eh?' Old Benjamin reached for the robe with a pathetically thin
hand and pawed over it with well-informed fingers. 'A keepsake,' he mumbled.
'And how did this come to be a keepsake?' He frowned darkly at Marcellus.
'You are a Roman, are you not? This robe is as Jewish as the Ten
Commandments.'

'True!' conceded Marcellus, patiently. 'I am a Roman, and the robe
belonged to a Jew.'

'Friend of yours, I suppose.' Benjamin's tone was bitterly ironical.

'Not exactly a friend, no. But he was a brave Jew and well esteemed by all
who knew him. His robe came into my hands, and I wish to have it treated with
respect.' Marcellus leaned closer to watch as the old man scratched lightly
at a dark stain with his yellow finger-nail.

'Died fighting, maybe,' muttered Benjamin.

'It was a violent death,' said Marcellus, 'but he was not fighting. He was
a man of peace—set upon by enemies.'

'You seem to know all about it,' growled Benjamin. 'However, it is naught
to me how you came by this garment. It is clear enough that you had no hand
in harming the Jew, or you would not think so highly of his old robe.'
Thawing slightly, he added, 'I shall mend it for you. It will cost you
nothing.'

'Thanks,' said Marcellus, coolly. 'I prefer to pay for it. When shall I
call?'

Benjamin wasn't listening. With his deep-lined old face upturned toward
the window he was inspecting the robe against the light. Over his thin
shoulder he beckoned Marcellus to draw closer.

'Observe, please. It is woven without a seam; all in one portion. There is
only one locality where they do it. It is up in the neighbourhood of the Lake
Gennesaret, in Galilee.' Benjamin waggled his beard thoughtfully. 'I have not
seen a piece of Galilean homespun for years. This is from up around Capernaum
somewhere, I'd say.'

'You are acquainted with that country?' inquired Marcellus.

'Yes, yes; my people are Samaritans, a little way to the south; almost on
the border.' Benjamin chuckled grimly. 'The Samaritans and the Galileans
never had much use for one another. The Galileans were great Temple people,
spending much time in their synagogues, and forever leaving their flocks and
crops to look after themselves while they journeyed to Jerusalem for the
ceremonies. They kept themselves poor with their pilgrimages and sacrifices.
We Samaritans didn't hold with the Temple.'

'Why was that?' wondered Marcellus.

Benjamin swung his thin legs over the edge of the table and sat up
prepared to launch upon an extended lecture.

'Of course,' he began, 'you have heard the story of Elijah.'

Marcellus shook his head, and Benjamin regarded him with withering pity;
then, apparently deciding not to waste any more time, he drew up his legs
again, folded them comfortably, and resumed his re-threading of the
needle.

'Was this Elijah one of the gods of Samaria?' Marcellus had the misfortune
to inquire.

The old man slowly put down his work and seared his young customer with a
contemptuous stare.

'I find it difficult to believe,' he declared, 'that even a Roman could
have accumulated so much ignorance. To the Jew—be he Samaritan,
Galilean, Judean, or of the dispersed—there is but one God! Elijah was
a great prophet. Elisha, who inherited his mantle, was also a great prophet.
They lived in the mountains of Samaria, long before the big temples and all
the holy fuss of the lazy priests. We Samaritans have always worshipped on
the hilltops, in the groves.'

'That sounds quite sensible to me,' approved Marcellus, brightly.

'Well,' grunted the old man, 'that's no compliment to our belief; though I
suppose you intended your remark to be polite.'

'That depends, sir, upon the nature of the provocation,' said Marcellus,
not wishing to be thought weak. 'You are my senior—by many, many
years.'

'Ah, so, and you think an old man has a right to be rude?'

'Apparently we share the same opinion on that matter,' asserted Marcellus,
complacently.

Benjamin bent low over his work, chuckling deep in his whiskers.

'What is your name, young man?' he asked, after a while, without looking
up; and when Marcellus had told him, he inquired, 'How long are you to be in
Athens?'

The query was of immense interest to Demetrius. Now that conditions had
changed, Marcellus might be contemplating an early return to Rome. He had not
yet indicated what his intentions were, or whether he had given the matter
any thought at all.

'I do not know,' replied Marcellus. 'Several weeks, perhaps. There are
many things I wish to see.'

'Doubtless,' replied Marcellus, evasively. 'The city was packed with all
sorts. Anything could have happened.' He hitched at his belt, and retreated a
step. 'I shall not interfere with your work any longer.'

'Come to-morrow—a little before sunset,' said Benjamin. 'The robe
will be ready for you. We will have a glass of wine together—if you
will accept the hospitality of my humble house.'

Marcellus hesitated for a moment before replying, and exchanged glances
with Demetrius, who almost imperceptibly shook his head as if saying we had
better not risk a review of the tragedy.

'You are most kind,' said Marcellus. 'I am not sure—what I may be
doing to-morrow. But, if I do not come, I shall send for the robe. May I pay
you now?' He reached into the breast of his tunic.

Benjamin continued stitching, as if he had not heard. After a long minute,
he searched Marcellus's eyes.

'I think,' he said slowly, patting the robe with gentle fingers, 'I think
you do not want to talk—about this Jew.'

Marcellus was plainly uncomfortable, and anxious to be off.

'It is a painful story,' he said, shortly.

'All stories about Jews are painful,' said Benjamin. 'May I expect you
to-morrow?'

'Y-yes,' agreed Marcellus, indecisively.

'That is good,' mumbled Benjamin. He held up his bony hand. 'Peace be upon
you!'

'Er—thank you,' stammered Marcellus, uncertain whether he, in turn,
was expected to confer peace upon the old Jew. Maybe that would be a social
error. 'Farewell,' he said at last, feeling he would be safe to leave it at
that.

Outside the shop, Marcellus and Demetrius exchanged looks of mutual
inquiry as they sauntered across the road to the empty theatre.

'Odd old creature,' remarked Marcellus. 'I'm not sure that I want to see
any more of him. Do you think he is crazy?'

'No,' said Demetrius, 'far from it. He is a very wise old man.'

'I think you feel that I should be making a mistake to come back here
to-morrow.'

'Yes, sir. Better forget all about that now.'

'But I need not talk about that wretched affair in Jerusalem,' protested
Marcellus. 'I can simply say that I do not want to discuss it.' His tone
sounded as if he were rehearsing the speech he intended to make. 'And that,'
he finished, 'ought to settle it, I think.'

'Yes, sir; that ought to settle it,' agreed Demetrius, 'but it won't.
Benjamin will not easily be put off.'

They strolled down the long grass-grown aisle toward the deserted
stage.

'Do you know anything about the customs and manners of the Jews,
Demetrius?' queried Marcellus, idly.

'Very little, sir, about their customs.'

'When old Benjamin said, "Peace be upon you," what should I have replied?
Is there a formulated answer to that?'

'"Farewell" is correct usage, sir, I think,' said Demetrius.

'But I did say that!' retorted Marcellus, returning with a bound from some
far-away mental excursion.

'Yes, sir,' agreed Demetrius. He hoped they were not already slipping back
into that pool of painful reflection.

They retraced their steps to the theatre entrance.

'I wonder how much the old man knows about Galilee,' mused Marcellus.

'He will tell you to-morrow.'

'But I'm not going back to-morrow! I don't want to have this matter
reopened. I intend to put the whole thing out of my mind!'

'That is a wise decision, sir,' approved Demetrius, soberly.

* * * * *

It was immediately apparent that this firm resolution was to be enforced.
Leaving the Theatre of Dionysus, they strolled through the agora, where
Marcellus paused before the market booths to exchange a bit of banter with
rosy-cheeked country girls and slip copper denarii into the grimy incredulous
hands of their little brothers and sisters. Then they went up on Mars' Hill
and spent an hour in the sacred grove where the great of the Greeks had been
turned into stone.

Turning aside from the main path, Marcellus sat down on a marble bench,
Demetrius standing a little way distant. Both were silently reflective. After
an interval, Marcellus waved an arm toward the stately row of mutilated
busts.

'Demetrius, it has just occurred to me that there isn't a warrior in the
lot! You Greeks are hard fighters, when you're put to it; but the heroes who
live forever in your public gardens are men of peace. Remember the Forum?
Sulla, Antony, Scipio, Camillus, Julius, Augustus—all tricked out in
swords and helmets! But look at this procession of Greeks, marching up the
hill! Socrates, Epicurus, Herodotus, Solon, Aristotle, Polybius! Not a
fighter among them!'

'But, they all look as if they'd been to war, sir,' jested Demetrius.

'Ah, yes, WE did that!' said Marcellus, scornfully. 'Our gallant Roman
legions; our brave illiterates!' He sat scowling for a moment; then went on,
with unaccustomed heat: 'Demetrius, I say damn all men who make war on
monuments! The present may belong to the Roman Empire by force of conquest;
but, by all the gods, the past does not! A nation is surely of contemptible
and cowardly mind that goes to battle against another nation's history! It
didn't take much courage to come up here and hack the ears off old Pericles!
I daresay the unwashed, drunken vandal who nicked his broadsword on the nose
of Hippocrates could neither read nor write! There's not much dignity left in
a nation that has no respect for the words and works of geniuses who gave the
world whatever wisdom and beauty it owns!'

Deeply stirred to indignation, he rose and strode across the path, and
faced the bust of Plato.

'That man, for example, HE has no nationality! HE has no fatherland! HE
has no race! No kingdom—in this world—can claim him, or destroy
him!' Abruptly, Marcellus stopped in the midst of what promised to be an
oration. He stood silent, for a moment; then walked slowly toward Demetrius,
and stared into his eyes.

'Do you know, Demetrius, that is what the Galilean said of himself!'

'I remember,' nodded Demetrius. 'He said his kingdom was not of the
world—and nobody knew what he meant.'

'I wonder—' Marcellus's voice was dreamy. 'Perhaps, some day, he'll
have a monument, like Plato's.... Come—let us go! We had decided to be
merry, to-day; and here we've been owling it like old philosophers.'

It was late in the afternoon before they reached the inn. When they were
drawing within sight of it, Marcellus remarked that he must call on the
Eupolis family.

'I should have done so earlier,' he added, casually. 'Upon my word, I
don't believe I've seen any of them since the night we arrived!'

'They will be glad to see you, sir,' said Demetrius. 'They have inquired
about you frequently.'

'I shall stop and see them now,' decided Marcellus, impulsively. 'You may
return to our suite. I'll be back presently.'

After they had separated, Demetrius reflected with some amusement that
this renewal of acquaintance, after so strange a lapse, would be of much
interest to the Eupolis household. Perhaps Theodosia would want to tell him
about it.

Then he fell to wondering what she would think about himself in this
connection. Had he not been so alarmed over his master's condition that he
had confided his distress to her? And here was Marcellus—supposedly
mired in an incurable despair—drifting in to call, as jauntily as if he
had never fretted about anything in his life! Would Theodosia think he had
fabricated the whole story? But she couldn't think that! Nobody could invent
such a tale!

After a while one of the kitchen slaves came to announce that the Tribune
would be dining with the family. Demetrius grinned broadly as he sauntered
out alone to the peristyle. He wondered what they would talk about at dinner.
The occasion would call for a bit of tact, he felt.

* * * * *

Early the next morning Marcellus donned a coarse tunic and set to work at
his modelling-table with the air of a professional sculptor. Demetrius
hovered about, waiting to be of service, until it became evident that nothing
was desired of him to-day but his silence, perhaps his absence. He asked if
he might take a walk.

Theodosia had set up a gaily coloured target near the front wall that
bounded the grounds and was shooting at it from a stadium's distance. She
made a pretty picture in the short-sleeved white chiton, a fringe of black
curls escaping her scarlet fillet. As Demetrius neared, he was surprised to
see that she was using a man's bow, and although she was not drawing it quite
to top torsion, her arrows struck with a clipped, metallic ping that
represented an unusual strength, for a girl. And the shots were well placed,
too. Demetrius reflected that if Theodosia wanted to, she could do a lot of
damage with one of those long, bone-tipped arrows.

She smiled and inquired whether he had any suggestions for her. He
interpreted this as an invitation to join her; but, reluctant, as before, to
compromise them both by appearing in conversation together, he did not turn
aside from the gravelled driveway.

'I think your marksmanship is very good,' he halted to say. 'You surely
need no instruction.'

She flushed a little, and drew another arrow from the quiver that leaned
against the stone lectus. Demetrius could see that she felt rebuffed as she
turned away. Regardless of consequences, he sauntered toward her.

'Are you too busy for a quiet talk?' she asked, without looking at
him.

'I was hoping you might suggest it,' said Demetrius. 'But we can't talk
here, you know.'

'Ssss—ping!' went the arrow.

'Very well,' said Theodosia. 'I'll meet you—over there.'

Walking quickly away, Demetrius made the circuitous trip to the Temple
garden. Apparently the priests were occupied with their holy employments,
whatever they were, for no one was in sight. His heart speeded a little when
he saw Theodosia coming. It was a new experience to be treated on terms of
equality, and he was not quite sure how this amenity should be viewed. He
needed and wanted Theodosia's friendship—but how was he to interpret
the freedom with which she offered it? Should she not have some compunction
about private interviews with a slave? It was a debatable question whether
this friendship was honouring him, or merely lowering her.

Theodosia sat down by him, without a greeting, and regarded him soberly,
at such short range that he noted the little flecks of gold in her dark
eyes.

'Tell me about the dinner-party,' said Demetrius, wanting to get it
over.

'Very strange, is it not?' There was nothing ironical in her tone. 'He is
entirely recovered.'

Demetrius nodded.

'I was afraid you might think I had misrepresented the facts,' he said. 'I
could not have blamed you.'

'No, I believed what you told me, Demetrius, and I believe it still.
Something happened. Something very important happened.'

'That is true. He found the robe, while I was absent, and adopted an
entirely different attitude toward it. Once he had touched it, his horror of
it suddenly left him. Last night he slept. To-day he has been his usual self.
I think his obsession has been cured. I don't pretend to understand it.'

'Naturally, I have thought of nothing else all day,' confessed Theodosia.
'If it was the robe that had tormented Marcellus, then it must have been a
new view of the robe that restored him. Maybe it's something like this: I
keep a diary, Demetrius. Every night, I write a few things I wish to
remember. If someone who does not know me should read a page where I am happy
and life is good, he might have quite a different impression of me than if he
read the other side of the papyrus where I am a cynic, a stoic, cold and
bitter. Now, you and Marcellus recorded many different thoughts on that
Galilean robe. Yours were sad, mostly, but they did not chide you. Marcellus
recorded memories on it—and they afflicted him.'

She paused, her eyes asking whether this analogy had any merit at all.
Demetrius signed to her to go on.

'You told me that this Jesus forgave them all, and that Marcellus had been
much moved by it. Maybe, when he touched the robe again, this impression came
back to him so strongly that it relieved his remorse. Does that sound
reasonable?'

'Yes, but wouldn't you think, Theodosia, that after having had such an
experience—a sort of illumination, setting him free of his
hauntings—Marcellus would be in a great state of exaltation? True, he
was ecstatic, for a while; but his high moment was brief. And for the most of
the day, yesterday, he acted almost as if nothing had happened to him.'

'My guess is that he is concealing his emotions,' ventured Theodosia.
'Maybe he feels this more deeply than you think.'

'There is no reason for his being reticent with me. He was so stirred by
his experience, the night before last, that he was half-indignant because I
tried to regard it rationally.'

'Perhaps that is why he doesn't want to discuss it further. He thinks the
problem is too big for either of you, so he's resolved not to talk about it.
You say he had a high moment—and then proceeded as if the experience
had been of no consequence. Well, that's natural, isn't it? We can't live on
mountain-tops.' Theodosia's eyes had a far-away look, and her voice was
wistful.

'My Aunt Ino,' she continued, 'once said to me, when I was desperately
lonely and dispirited, that our life is like a land journey, too even and
easy and dull over long distances across the plains, too hard and painful up
the steep grades. But, on the summit of the mountain, you have a magnificent
view, and feel exalted, and your eyes are full of happy tears, and you want
to sing and you wish you had wings! And then—because you can't stay
there, but must continue your journey—you begin climbing down the other
side, so busy with your footholds that your summit experience is
forgotten.'

'You have a pretty mind, Theodosia,' said Demetrius, gently.

'That was my Aunt Ino's mind I was talking about.'

'I am sorry you were lonely and depressed, Theodosia.' Absently he rubbed
his finger-tips over the small white scar on his ear. 'I shouldn't have
thought you were ever sad. Want to talk about it?'

Her eyes had followed his hand with frank interest.

'Not all slaves have had their ears marked,' she said, pensively. 'Your
position is tragic. I know that. There is something very wrong with a world
in which a man like you must go through life as a slave. But, really, is
there much to choose between your social condition and mine? I am the
daughter of an innkeeper. In your case, Demetrius, it makes no difference
that you were brought up in a home of refinement and well endowed with a good
mind: wicked men put you into slavery—and there you are! And where am
I? It makes no difference that my father, Dion, is a man of integrity, well
versed in the classics, acquainted with the arts, and bearing himself
honourably before the men of Athens, as did his father Georgias. He is an
innkeeper. Perhaps it would have been better for me if I had not been taught
to love things beyond my social station.'

'But, Theodosia, your advantages have made your life rich,' said
Demetrius, consolingly. 'You have so much to make you happy; your books, your
music, your boundless vitality, your beautiful clothes—'

'I have no place to wear my nice clothes,' she countered, bitterly, 'and I
have no use for my vitality. If the daughter of an innkeeper wants to be
happy, she should conform to the traditions. She should be noisy, pert, and
not above petty larcenies. Then she could have friends—of her own
class.' Her eyes suddenly flooded. 'Demetrius,' she said, huskily, 'sometimes
I think I can't bear it!'

He slipped his arm about her, and they sat for a long moment in silence.
Then she straightened, and regarded him soberly.

'Why don't you run away?' she demanded, in a whisper. 'I would—if I
were a man.'

'Where would you go?' he asked, with an indulgent grin.

Theodosia indicated with a negligent gesture that the question was of
secondary importance.

'Anywhere,' she murmured vaguely. 'Sicily, maybe. They say it is lovely,
in Sicily.'

'It's a land of thieves and cut-throats,' declared Demetrius. 'It is in
the lovely lands that life is most difficult, Theodosia. The only places
where one may live in peace—so far as I know—are arid desolations
where nothing grows and nothing is covetable.'

'Why not Damascus? You thought of that once, you know.'

'I should die of loneliness up there.'

'You could take me with you.' She laughed lightly, as she spoke, to assure
him the remark was intended playfully, but they quickly fell silent.

Rousing from her reverie, Theodosia sat up, patted her fillet, and said
she must go.

Demetrius rose and watched her as she drifted gracefully away; then
resumed his seat and unleashed his thoughts. He was becoming much too fond of
Theodosia, and she was being too recklessly generous with her friendship.
Perhaps it would be better to avoid any more private talks with her, if he
could do so without hurting her feelings. She was very desirable and her
tenderness was endearing. The freedom with which she confided in him and the
artless candour of her attitude—sometimes but little short of a
caress—had stirred him deeply. Until now, whatever devotion he had to
offer a woman was silently, hopelessly given to Lucia. As he reflected upon
his feeling for her now, Lucia was in the nature of a shrine. Theodosia was
real! But he was not going to take advantage of her loneliness. There was
nothing he could ever do for her. They were both unhappy enough without
exchanging unsecured promises. He was a slave—but not a thief.

The day was still young and at his disposal; for Marcellus did not want
him about. Perhaps that was because he wished to be undistracted while he
made experiments with his modelling-clay; perhaps, again, he needed solitude
for a reshaping of his preconceived theories about supernatural
phenomena.

Strolling out of the Temple garden, Demetrius proceeded down the street
which grew noisier and more crowded as he neared the agora. He sauntered
aimlessly through the vasty market-place, savouring the blended aromas of
ground spices, ripe melons, roasted nuts, and fried leeks; enjoying the
polyglot confusion. Emerging, he lounged into a circle gathered about a blind
lute-player and his loyal dog; drifted across the cobbled street to listen to
a white-bearded soothsayer haranguing a small, apathetic company from the
portico of an abandoned theatre; was jostled off the pavement by a shabby
legionary who needed much room for his cruise with a cargo of wine. Time was
beginning to hang heavy on his hands.

It now occurred to him that he might trump up some excuse to have a talk
with Benjamin. Purchasing a small basket of ripe figs, he proceeded to the
weaver's house; and, entering, presented himself before the old man's
worktable.

'So, he decided not to come, eh?' observed Benjamin, glancing up sourly
and returning immediately to his stitches. 'Well, you're much too early. I
have not finished. As you see, I am at work on it now.'

'I did not come for the robe, sir.' Demetrius held out his gift. 'It was a
long day, and I had no employment. I have been strolling about. Would you
like some figs?'

Benjamin motioned to have the basket put down on the table beside him;
and, taking one of the figs, slowly munched it, without looking up from his
work. After a while, he had cleared his mouth enough to be articulate.

'Did you say to yourself, "I must take that cross old Jew some of these
nice figs"?—or did you say, "I want to ask Benjamin some questions, and
I'll take the figs along, so he'll think I just dropped in to be
friendly"?'

'They're quite good figs, sir,' said Demetrius.

'So they are.' Benjamin reached for another. 'Have one yourself,' he
mumbled, with difficulty. 'Why did you not want him to come back and see me
to-day? You were afraid I might press him to talk about that poor, dead Jew?
Well, and why not? Surely a proud young Roman need not shrink from the
questions of an old weaver—an old Jewish weaver—in subjugated
Athens!'

'Perhaps I should let my master speak for himself. He has not instructed
me to discuss this matter.'

'I daresay you are telling the truth; albeit frugally,' grinned Benjamin.
'You would never be mistaken for a sieve. But why may we not do a little
honest trading? You came to ask questions. Very well; ask them. Then—I
shall ask questions of you. We will put all the questions on the table, and
bargain for answers. Is that not fair enough?'

'I'm afraid I don't quite understand,' parried Demetrius.

'Well, for one thing, I noticed yesterday that you were surprised and
troubled when I showed knowledge of strange doings in Jerusalem last Passover
Week; and I think you would like to ask me how much I know about that. Now, I
shall be glad to tell you, if you will first answer some questions of mine.'
Benjamin glanced up with a sly, conspiratorial smile. 'I shall give you an
easy one first. Doubtless you were in Jerusalem with your master: did you
happen to see the Galilean whom they crucified?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Demetrius, promptly.

'Very good. What manner of man was he?' Benjamin put down his work, and
leaned forward with eager interest. 'You are a bright fellow, for a
slave—and a heathen. Was there anything—anything
peculiar—about this Galilean? How close did you get to him? Did you
hear him speak?'

'My first sight of the Galilean was on the morning of our entrance into
Jerusalem. There was a great crowd accompanying him into the city. Not
knowing the language, I did not fully understand the event; but learned that
this large multitude of country people wanted to crown him king. They were
shouting "Messiah!" I was told that these people were always looking for a
great leader to deliver them from political bondage; he would be the
"Messiah." So the crowd shouted "Messiah!" and waved palms before him, as if
he were a king.'

Benjamin's eyes were alert and his shrunken mouth was open, the puckered
lips trembling.

'Go on!' he demanded, gutturally, when Demetrius paused.

'I forced my way into the pack until I was almost close enough to have
touched him. He was indeed an impressive man, sir, albeit simply
clad—'

'In this?' Benjamin caught up the robe in his shaking hands and pushed it
toward Demetrius, who nodded—and went on.

'It was quite evident that the man was not enjoying the honour. His eyes
were brooding; full of sadness; full of loneliness.'

'Ah!—wait a moment, my friend!' Benjamin turned to his shelf of
scrolls; drew out one that had seen much handling; turned it rapidly to the
passage he sought, and read, in a deep sonorous tone: '"—a man of
sorrows—acquainted with grief—" This is the prophecy of Yeshayah.
Proceed, please! Did he speak?'

'I did not hear him speak—not that day.'

'Ah! so you saw him again!'

'When he was tried—at the Insula, a few days later—for
treason.'

'You saw that?'

Demetrius nodded.

'What was his behaviour there?' asked Benjamin. 'Did he plead for
mercy?'

'No—he was quite composed. I could not understand what he said: but
he accepted his sentence without protest.'

Benjamin excitedly spread open his ancient scroll. 'Listen, my friend!
This, too, is from the prophecy of Yeshayah. "He was oppressed and afflicted,
yet he opened not his mouth."'

'He did talk,' remembered Demetrius, 'but very calmly—and
confidently. That was thought strange, too; for he had been cruelly
whipped.'

Benjamin read again from the scroll in an agitated voice: '"He was wounded
for our transgressions—and with his stripes we are healed."'

'Whose transgressions?' wondered Demetrius. 'The Jews'?'

'Yeshayah was a Jewish prophet, my friend,' replied Benjamin. 'And he was
foretelling the coming of a Jewish Messiah.'

'That means then that the Messiah's injuries would not be borne in the
interest of any other people?' persisted Demetrius. 'If that is true, I do
not think this Jesus was the Messiah! Before he died, he forgave the Roman
legionaries who had nailed him to the cross!'

Benjamin glanced up with a start.

'How do you know that?' he demanded.

'So it was said by those who stood by,' declared Demetrius. 'It was heard
by all.'

'This is a strange thing!' murmured Benjamin. Presently he roused from a
long moment of deep meditation. 'Now—you may ask me questions, if you
wish,' he said.

'I think you have answered my queries, sir. I thought you might tell me
something more about the Messiah—and you have done so. According to the
writings, he was to come as the champion of the Jewish people. The man I saw
had no wish to be their champion. It made him unhappy when they urged
kingship upon him. At his trial he said he had a kingdom—but it was not
in the world.'

'Where then—if not in the world?' rasped Benjamin.

'You are much wiser than I, sir. If you do not know, it would be
presumptuous for a pagan slave to attempt an explanation.'

'You are sarcastic, my young friend,' grumbled Benjamin.

'No, sir, I am entirely sincere, and bewildered. I think this Jesus was
interested in EVERYBODY! I think he was SORRY FOR EVERYBODY!' Demetrius
paused, and murmured apologetically, 'Perhaps I have been talking too freely,
sir.'

'You have a right to talk,' conceded Benjamin. 'I am a Jew—but I
believe that our God is the father of mankind. Peradventure the
Messiah—when he comes to reign over the Jews—will establish
justice for all.'

'I wish I could study these ancient prophecies,' said Demetrius.

'Well'—Benjamin shrugged—'and why not? Here they are. You have
a good mind. If you have much time, and little to do, learn to read
them.'

'How?'

'I might help you,' said Benjamin, amiably. He swung his thin legs over
the edge of the table. You will excuse me now,' he added, abruptly. 'I must
prepare my noonday meat.' Without further words of leave-taking, he moved
slowly toward a door at the rear, and disappeared.

* * * * *

Evidently Benjamin had finished his day's labour, for the sleek-topped
worktable was unoccupied. A door in the far corner behind the largest loom,
unnoticed by Marcellus on his previous visit, stood hospitably ajar. He
walked toward it.

In pleasant contrast to the stifling confusion of the overcrowded shop,
Benjamin's private quarters were simply but tastefully furnished. The
orange-and-blue rug that covered the entire floor was of fine workmanship.
There were three comfortable chairs and footstools, a couch with a pair of
camel's-hair saddle-bags for a pillow, and a massive metal-bound chest. An
open case of deep shelves, fitted around either side and below a large
window, was filled to capacity with ancient scrolls.

A farther door opposite gave upon a shaded, stone-flagged court. Assuming
that the old man expected him to proceed, Marcellus crossed the room.
Benjamin, surprisingly tall in his long black robe and tasselled skull-cap,
was laying a table in the centre of his high-walled vine-thatched
peristyle.

'I hope I am not intruding,' said Marcellus.

'It is never an intrusion,' said Benjamin, 'to pass through an open door
in Athens. You are welcome.' He pointed to one of the rug-covered chairs by
the table and put down the two silver goblets from his tray.

'I did not know that you lived here, at your shop,' remarked Marcellus,
for something to say.

'For two reasons,' explained Benjamin, laying an antique knife beside the
brown barley-loaf. 'It is more convenient, and it is prudent. One does not
leave a shop unguarded in this city.'

'Or any other city of my acquaintance,' commented Marcellus.

'Such as—' Benjamin drew out his chair and sat.

'Well, such as Rome, for example. We are overrun with slaves. They are
notorious thieves, with no regard for property rights.'

Benjamin laughed gutturally.

'The slave is indeed a predatory creature,' he remarked dryly. 'He makes
off with your best sandals when the only thing you have stolen from him is
his freedom.' He raised his cup and bowed to Marcellus. 'Shall we drink to
the day when no man is another man's property?'

'Gladly!' Marcellus sipped his wine. It was of good vintage. 'My father,'
he asserted, 'says the time will come when Rome must pay dearly for enslaving
men.'

'He does not approve of it? Then I presume he owns no slaves.' Benjamin
was intent upon evenly slicing the bread. Marcellus flushed a little at the
insinuation.

'If slavery were abolished,' he said, defensively, 'my father would be
among the first to applaud. Of course—as the matter stands—'

'Of course,' echoed Benjamin. 'Your father knows it is wrong, but other
men of his social station practise it. In his opinion, it is better to be
wrong than eccentric.'

'If I may venture to speak for my father,' said Marcellus, calmly, 'I do
not think he has elaborated a theory of that nature. He is a man of integrity
and generosity. His slaves are well treated. They probably have better food
and shelter in our home—'

'I can readily believe that,' interrupted Benjamin. 'They have more to eat
than they might have if they were free. Doubtless that is also true of your
horses and dogs. The question is: Are men and beasts of the same category? Is
there no essential difference between them in respect to the quality of their
value? If a healthy, hard-working ass can be had for ten drachmas, and an
able-bodied man can be had for two silver talents, the difference in their
worth is purely quantitative. It is at that point that I find human slavery
abhorrent. It is an offence to the majesty of the human spirit; for if any
man deserves to be regarded as of the same quality as a beast of burden, then
no man has any dignity left. I, Benjamin, believe that all men are created in
the image of God.'

'Is that a Jewish conception?' asked Marcellus.

'Yes.'

'But wealthy Jews own slaves, do they not?' Marcellus raised the question
casually, as if it didn't matter much how or whether the old man answered it,
but the charge stirred Benjamin to instant attention.

'Ah, there you have tapped one of the roots of our trouble!' he exclaimed.
'The Jew professes to believe that humanity was created in the image of God.
Thus he affirms that God is his spiritual father. But that can be true only
if he declares that all men are the children of God. Either they all
are—or none! I, Benjamin, think they all are! Therefore, when I enslave
another man, placing him at once with the cattle in the fields, I throw my
whole case away.'

Marcellus broke his bread and amiably conceded that it didn't seem quite
right for one man to own another. It was no way to regard a fellow human, he
said, even if you treated him kindly. A man shouldn't be made to feel that he
was just another animal.

'Oh, as for that'—Benjamin dismissed this idea with an indifferent
wave of his thin arm—'you don't rob a slave of his divine character
when you buy him and hitch him to a plough, between an ox and an ass. He has
had no choice in the matter. It isn't he who has degraded mankind: it is YOU!
He is still free to believe that God is his spiritual father. But YOU aren't!
Now, you take the case of that handsome Greek who trails about after you.
Slavery hasn't stopped HIM from being one of the sons of God, if he wants to
consider himself so; but his slavery has made YOU a relative of the beasts,
because that is your conception of man's value.'

'I am not much of a philosopher,' admitted Marcellus, carelessly.
'Perhaps, after I've been in Athens awhile, lounging on Mars' Hill, observing
the spinning of sophistical cobwebs—'

'You'll be able to tie up sand with a rope,' assisted Benjamin, in the
same temper. 'But what we're talking about is more than a pedantry. It is a
practical matter. Here is your great Roman Empire, sending out its ruthless
armies in all directions to pillage and persecute weak nations; bringing home
the best of their children in stinking slave-ships, and setting the old ones
at hard labour to pay an iniquitous tribute. Eventually the Roman Empire will
collapse—'

'My father thinks that,' interposed Marcellus. 'He says that the Romans,
with their slave labour, are getting softer and fatter and lazier, every day;
and that the time will come—'

'Yes, yes, the time will come—but that won't be the reason!'
declaimed Benjamin. 'The Romans will be crushed, but not because they are too
fat. It will be because they have believed that all men are beasts. Enslaving
other men, they have denied their own spiritual dignity. Not much wonder that
your Roman gods are a jest and a mockery in the sight of all your intelligent
people. What do YOU want with gods—you who think that men are like
cattle, to be led by a halter? Why should YOU look to the gods, when your dog
doesn't?'

Benjamin paused in his monologue to refill their goblets. He had been much
stirred, and his old hand was trembling.

'I am a Jew,' he went on, 'but I am not unconversant with the religion of
other races. Time was when your Roman deities were regarded with some
respect. Jove meant something to your ancestors. Then the time came when
Julius Cæsar became a god, more important than Jove. Only the down-trodden
any longer believed in the classic deities who controlled the sunrise and the
rain, who dealt out rewards and punishments, who tempered the wind for the
mariner, and filled the grape with goodness. And why, let me ask you, did
Cæsar make a mockery of the Roman religion? Ah, that was when the Romans had
achieved enough military power to enslave other nations, buying and selling
men, and driving them in herds. By that act they declared that all
men—including themselves, of course—were of no relation to the
gods! Vain and pompous Cæsar was god enough when it became established that
all men were animals!'

'Is it your belief, then, that if the Romans abolished slavery they would
think more highly of the old gods, and by their reverence make themselves
more noble?'

Benjamin chuckled derisively.

'An "if" of such magnitude,' he growled, 'makes the rest of your question
ridiculous.'

'Well, as for me'—Marcellus had tired of the subject, as his tone
candidly announced—'I have no interest in the gods, be they classic or
contemporary.'

'How do you account for the universe?' demanded Benjamin.

'I don't,' replied Marcellus. 'I didn't know that I was expected to.' And
then, feeling that this rejoinder was more impolite than amusing, he added
quickly: 'I should be glad to believe in a supernatural being, if one were
proposed who seemed qualified for that office. It would clarify many a
riddle. Yesterday you were saying that your people, the Samaritans,
worshipped on the mountain-tops. I can cheerfully do that too if I'm not
required to personify the sunrise and the trees.'

'We do not personify the objects of nature,' explained Benjamin. 'We
believe in one God—a Spirit—creator of all things.'

'Somewhere I have heard it said'—Marcellus's eyes were averted
thoughtfully—'that the Jews anticipate the rise of a great leader, a
champion, a king. He is to set them free and establish an enduring
government. Do you Samaritans believe that?'

'We do!' declared Benjamin. 'All of our great prophets have foretold the
coming of the Messiah.'

'How long have you been looking for him?'

'For many centuries.'

'And you are still hopeful?'

Benjamin stroked his long beard thoughtfully.

'The expectation ebbs and flows,' he said. 'In periods of national
calamity there has been much talk of it. In times of great hardship and
persecution, the Jews have been alert to discover among themselves some wise
and brave man who might give evidence of messianic powers.'

'And never found one to qualify?' asked Marcellus.

'Not the real one—no.' Benjamin paused to meditate. 'It is a queer
thing,' he went on. 'In a time of great need, when powerful leadership is
demanded, the people—confused and excited—hear only the strident
voices of the audacious, and refuse to listen to the voice of wisdom which,
being wise, is temperate. Yes—we have had many zealous pretenders to
messiahship. They have come and gone—like meteors.'

'But, in the face of all these disappointments, you sustain your faith
that the Messiah will come?'

'He will come,' murmured Benjamin. 'Of course, every generation thinks its
own problems are severe enough to warrant his coming. Ever since the Roman
occupation, there has been a revival of interest in the ancient predictions.
Even the Temple has pretended to yearn for the Messiah.'

'Pretended?' Marcellus raised his brows.

'The Temple is fairly well satisfied with things as they are,' grumbled
Benjamin. The Roman Prefects grind the poor with vicious taxation, but they
are careful about imposing too hard on the priests and the influential rich.
The Temple would be embarrassed, I fear, if the Messiah put in an appearance.
He might want to make some changes.' The old man seemed to be talking mostly
to himself now, for he did not bother to explain what he meant.

Benjamin rallied from his reminiscent torpor and slowly turned an
inquiring gaze upon his pagan guest.

'How do you happen to know about that iniquity?' he asked slyly.

'Oh, I heard it discussed in Jerusalem.' Marcellus made it sound
unimportant. 'It seems there had been a little protest.'

'A little protest?' Benjamin lifted an ironical eyebrow. 'It must have
been quite an insistent protest to have come to the ears of a visiting Roman.
What were you doing there—if I may venture to ask?'

'It was Empire business,' replied Marcellus, stiffly. He rose, readjusting
the folds of his toga. 'I must not outstay my welcome,' he said, graciously.
'You have been most kind. I am greatly indebted to you. May I have the robe
now?'

Benjamin withdrew, returning almost immediately. Marcellus examined the
robe in the waning light.

'It is well done,' he said. 'No one would know it had ever been torn.'

'No one but you,' said Benjamin, gravely. Marcellus shifted his position,
uneasily, avoiding the old man's eyes. 'These stains,' added Benjamin, 'I
tried to remove them. They will not come out. You have not told me about this
poor Jew. He was brave, you said; and died at the hands of his enemies. Was
he a Galilean, perhaps?'

'I believe so,' replied Marcellus, restlessly. He folded the robe over his
arm, and extended his hand in farewell.

'Was his name Jesus?' Benjamin's insistent voice had dropped to a mere
guttural whisper.

'Yes, that was his name,' admitted Marcellus, grudgingly. 'How did you
know?'

'I learnt of the incident from a long-time friend, one Popygos, a dealer
in spices. He was in Jerusalem during this last Passover Week. Tell
me'—Benjamin's tone was entreating—'how did you come by this
robe?'

'Does it matter?' countered Marcellus, suddenly haughty.

Benjamin bowed obsequiously, rubbing his thin hands.

'You must forgive me for being inquisitive,' he muttered. 'I am an old
man, without family, and far from my native land. My scrolls—the
history of my race, the words of our great prophets—they are my meat
and drink, my young friend! They are a lamp unto my feet and a light upon my
path. They are my heritage. My daily work—it is nothing! It busies my
fingers and brings me my food; but my soul, my life—it is hidden and
nourished in words so fitly spoken they are as apples of gold in pictures of
silver!' Benjamin's voice had risen resonantly and his deep-lined face was
enraptured.

'You are fortunate, sir,' said Marcellus. 'I, too, am fond of the classics
bequeathed to us by men of great wisdom—Plato, Pythagoras,
Parmenides—'

Benjamin smiled indulgently and wagged his head.

'Yes, yes—it was through their works that you were taught how to
read—but not how to live! They who spoke the Hebrew tongue understood
the words of life! Now—you see—my young friend—throughout
these prophecies there runs a promise. One day, a Messiah shall arise and
reign! His name shall be called Wonderful! And of his kingdom there shall be
no end! No certain time is set for his coming—but he will come! Think
you then that it is mere idle curiosity in me to inquire diligently about
this Jesus, whom so many have believed to be the Messiah?'

'I would hear more about these predictions,' said Marcellus, after a
meditative pause.

'Why not?' Benjamin's deepset eyes lighted. 'I love to think of them. I
shall gladly tell you; though it would be better if you could read them for
yourself.'

'Is Hebrew difficult?' asked Marcellus.

Benjamin smiled and shrugged.

'Well, it is no more difficult than Greek, which you speak fluently.
Naturally, it is more difficult than Latin.'

'Why "naturally"?' snapped Marcellus, frowning.

'Forgive me,' retreated Benjamin. 'Perhaps the Greeks ask more of the mind
because the Greek writers—' The old man politely floundered to a
stop.

'The Greek writers thought more deeply,' assisted Marcellus. 'Is that what
you're trying to say? If so, I agree with you.'

'I meant no offence,' reiterated Benjamin. 'Rome has her poets, satirists,
eulogists. There are many interesting little essays by your Cicero; rather
childish. They pick flowers, but they do not sweep the sky!' Benjamin caught
up a worn scroll from the table and deftly unrolled it with familiar hands.
'Listen, friend!—"When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,
the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art
mindful of him?"'

'But wait!' cried Benjamin. 'Let me go on, please!—"Thou hast made
him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and
honour." Ah—there is richness in the Hebrew wisdom! You should acquaint
yourself with it!'

'For the present, I shall have to content myself with such choice bits of
it as you may be good enough to offer me, from time to time,' said Marcellus.
'I am doing some sculpturing now, and it will claim my full attention.' He
laid a small silk bag of silver on the table. 'Please accept this—for
mending the robe.'

'But I do not wish to be paid,' said Benjamin, firmly.

'Then give it to the poor,' said Marcellus, impatiently.

'Thank you.' Benjamin bowed. 'It has just occurred to me that if you would
know something of this ancient Jewish lore—and are too busy to study it
for yourself—you might permit your Greek slave to learn the language. I
should be glad to instruct him. He is intelligent.'

'It is true that Demetrius is bright. May I ask how you discovered
it?'

'I had not supposed my painful words would make you glad,' said Marcellus,
in a tone of bewilderment. 'This Jesus was a brave man. He deserved to live!
Yet you seem pleased to be assured that he was put to death!'

'There have been many rumours,' said Benjamin, 'many idle tales, reporting
that the drunken legionaries left the scene before he died, and that the
friends of the Galilean rescued and revived him.'

'Well, I happen to know that such tales are untrue!' said Marcellus,
firmly. 'The executioners were drunk enough, but they killed the Galilean,
and when they left—he was dead! This is not hearsay with me. I
KNOW!'

'You are speaking important words, my son!' Benjamin's voice was husky
with emotion. 'I am glad you came to-day! I shall hope to see more of you,
sir.' He raised his bony hand over Marcellus's head. His arm was trembling.
'The Lord bless you and keep you,' he intoned, reverently. 'The Lord make his
face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his
countenance upon you, and give you peace.'

There was a long moment of silence before Marcellus stirred. Much
perplexed, and uncertain what was expected of him, he bowed respectfully to
Benjamin; and, without further words, walked slowly through the shop and out
into the twilight.

Now that Diana was expected back from Capri almost any day,
the Gallio family felt that some explanation must be contrived to account for
the sudden departure of Marcellus.

Unquestionably word had already reached Tiberius that the Vestris had
arrived with Marcellus as her most important passenger. Diana would be eager
to see him, and she had every reason to believe that he would be waiting
impatiently for her return.

Lucia was for telling her that Marcellus had come home in such frail
health that an immediate change of climate seemed imperative, though Diana
would inquire about the nature of his malady, and wonder in what respect the
climate of Athens was so highly esteemed.

Cornelia had weakly suggested that perhaps there were better physicians in
Athens. Diana might be satisfied with that, she thought, or said she did; but
this was nonsense, for everybody knew that most of the really good Athenian
physicians had been imported to Rome.

'No,' Senator Gallio had observed judicially, 'you are both in error. When
there is some serious explaining to be done, no contrivance is as serviceable
as the truth. Let her have it. If Diana and my son are in love, as you two
seem to think, she has a right to know the story and it is our duty to tell
her. It should not be difficult.' With everything thus sensibly settled, the
Senator rose and was leaving his wife's boudoir when their daughter detained
him.

'Assuming that I have it to do,' said Lucia, maturely, 'how much of the
story is to be told?'

Her father made the query of no great importance with a negligent flick of
his fingers.

'You can say that your brother was required to conduct the crucifixion of
a Jewish revolutionist; that the experience was a shock; that it plunged him
into a deep melancholy from which he has not yet fully recovered; that we
thought it best for him to seek diversion.'

'Nothing, then,' mused Lucia, 'about those dreadful seizures of remorse,
and the haunted look, and that odd question he insisted on asking, against
his will?'

'Mmm, no,' decided the Senator. 'That will not be necessary. It should be
sufficient to say that Marcellus is moody and depressed.'

'Diana will not be contented with that explanation,' declared Lucia. 'She
is going to be disappointed, embarrassed, and indignant. Quite apart from
their fondness for each other, it was no small thing she did for Marcellus in
having him recalled from exile. And she will think it very strange indeed
that a Roman Tribune should be so seriously disturbed by the execution of a
convict.'

'We are all agreed on that,' glumly conceded the Senator. 'I do not
pretend to understand it. My son has never been lacking in courage. It is not
like him to fall ill at the sight of blood.'

'Perhaps it would be better,' put in Cornelia, suddenly inspired, 'if we
omit all reference to that dreadful crucifixion, and simply say that
Marcellus wanted to do some sculpturing, and attend some lectures,
and—'

'So urgently,' scoffed Lucia, 'that he couldn't wait a few days to see the
girl who was responsible for bringing him home.'

Her mother sighed, added another stitch to her embroidery, and murmured
that her suggestion did sound rather silly, an afterthought accepted without
controversy.

'He promised me he would write to her,' remembered Lucia.

'Well, we cannot wait for that,' said her father. 'It might be weeks.
Diana will want to know—now! Better tell her everything, Lucia. She
will get it out of you, in any case. A young woman bright enough to extort
valuable favours from our crusty old Emperor will make her own deductions
about this, no matter what you tell her.'

'I'm afraid you do not know Diana very well,' cautioned Lucia. 'She has
had no training that would fit her to understand. She idolizes her father,
who would as lief kill a man as a mouse. I do not think she is experienced in
forgiving people for being weak.'

'That doesn't sound like you, Lucia,' reproved her mother, gently, when
the Senator was out of hearing. 'One would almost think you were not
sympathetic with your brother. Surely—you do not think Marcellus weak;
do you?'

'Oh, I don't know what to think,' muttered Lucia, dismally. 'What is there
to think?' She put both her hands over her eyes and shook her head. 'We've
lost Marcellus, Mother,' she cried. 'He was so manly! I loved him so much! It
is breaking my heart.'

* * * * *

But if the problem of breaking the bad news to Diana was perplexing, it
was simple as compared with the dilemma that arose on the following afternoon
when an impressively uniformed Centurion was shown in, bearing an ornate,
official scroll addressed to Marcellus. It was from the Emperor. The
Centurion said he was expected to wait for instructions, adding that the
royal carriage would call early in the morning.

'But my son is not here,' said Gallio. 'He has sailed for Athens.'

'Indeed! That is most unfortunate!'

'I gather that you are acquainted with the nature of this message.'

'Yes, sir; it is no secret. The Emperor has appointed Tribune Marcellus to
be the Commander of the Palace Guard. We are all much pleased, sir.'

'I sincerely regret my son's absence, Centurion. Perhaps I should send a
message by you to the Emperor.' Gallio reflected for a moment. 'No—I
shall go and explain to him in person.'

'Very good, sir. Will it be agreeable to start at dawn?'

So they started at dawn, though it was not particularly agreeable, a swift
drive from Rome to Neapolis being counted by the Senator as a doubtful
pleasure. Moreover, he had no great relish for his errand. He was not
unacquainted with the techniques of persuasive debate, but the impending
interview with the Emperor would be unpleasant; for Tiberius had no patience
and Gallio had no case. The horses galloped over the deep-rutted cobbles, the
big carriage bounced, the painful hours dragged, the Senator's head ached.
All things considered, it was not an enjoyable excursion, and by the time he
reached the top of Capri, at midnight, there was nothing left in him but a
strong desire to go to bed.

The Chamberlain showed him to a sumptuous apartment and Gallio sank into a
chair utterly exhausted. Two well-trained Macedonians began unpacking his
effects, laying out fresh linen. Another slave drew water for his bath while
a big Nubian, on his knees, unlaced the Senator's sandals. A deferential
Thracian came with a welcome flagon of chilled wine. Then the Chamberlain
reappeared.

'The Emperor wishes to see you, sir,' he reported, in an apologetic
tone.

'Now?' Gallio wrinkled his nose distastefully.

'If you please, sir. His Majesty had left orders to have Tribune Marcellus
shown into his presence immediately upon his arrival. When told that Senator
Gallio had come instead, the Emperor said he would give him an audience at
once.'

'Very well,' sighed Gallio. Signing to the Nubian to relace his sandals,
the weary man rose stiffly and followed along to the Emperor's lavishly
appointed suite.

The old man was sitting up in bed, bolstered about with pillows, his
nightcap rakishly askew. A half-dozen attendants were fluttering about,
inventing small errands.

'Out!' he yelled, as the Senator neared the imperial couch; and they
backed nimbly away—all but the Chamberlain. 'You, too!' shrilled
Tiberius, and the Chamberlain tiptoed to the door. Peering up into Gallio's
face, the Emperor regarded him with a surly look of challenge.

'What is the meaning of this?' he squeaked. 'We confer a great honour upon
your son, who has done nothing to deserve it, only to learn
that—without so much as a by-your-leave—he has left the country.
You, his father, have come to explain. Well! be about it, then! High time
somebody explained!'

'Your Majesty,' began Gallio, with a deep bow, 'my son will be very
unhappy when he learns that he has unwittingly offended his Emperor, to whom
he owes so much.'

'Never mind about that!' barked Tiberius. 'Get on with it! And make it
short! I need my rest! They were a pack of fools to wake me up for no better
cause—and you were a fool to let them! You, too, should be in bed. You
have had a hard trip. You are tired. Sit down! Don't stand there like a
sentry! I command you to sit down! You are an old, old man. Sit down, before
you fall down!'

Gallio gratefully sank into the luxurious chair by the Emperor's massive
golden bed, pleased to observe that the royal storm was subsiding
somewhat.

'As Your Majesty has said, it is too late in the night for a lengthy
explanation. My son Marcellus was appointed Legate of the Legion at
Minoa—'

'Yes, yes, I know all about that!' spluttered Tiberius. 'We rescinded the
order of that addlepated scamp in Rome and brought your son back. And then
what?'

'From Minoa, sire, he was ordered to Jerusalem to help preserve the peace
during the Jews' annual festival. A small but turbulent revolutionary party
became active. Its leader was tried for treason and condemned to death by
crucifixion.'

'Crucifixion, eh? Must have been a dangerous character.'

'I did not understand it so, Your Majesty. He was a young Jew of no great
repute, a harmless, mild-mannered, peace-loving fellow from one of the
outlying provinces—Galilee, I believe. It seems he had grossly offended
the Temple authorities.'

'It is their custom, sire, to sell sacrificial animals in the court of the
Temple. The priests profit by it, demanding high prices from the poor. This
Galilean was enraged over the fraud and the sacrilege; took up a drover's
whip, and lashed the priests and the beasts out of the Temple and into the
street, and—'

'Hi! Hi!' yelled Tiberius, so loudly that the Chamberlain put his head in
at the door. 'Here—you! Worthless eavesdropper! Bring wine for Senator
Gallio. We, ourself, shall have wine! Hi! Hi! Mild-mannered, peace-loving
Galilean whipped the prating priests out into the street, eh? Not much wonder
they crucified him! He was a reckless fellow, indeed! But when does your son
appear in this story?'

'He was ordered to crucify the Jew, and it made him ill.' Gallio paused to
sip his wine slowly, while the old man snuffled and bubbled into the huge
goblet which the Chamberlain held to his lips.

'Ill?' Tiberius grinned sourly and belched. 'Sick at his stomach?'

'Sick in his head. If it is your pleasure, sire, I shall tell you about
it,' said Gallio; and when Tiberius had nodded assent, he proceeded to an
account of Marcellus's depression and strange behaviour, and their decision
to send him to Athens, where, they hoped, he might find mental diversion.

'Well!' grunted Tiberius. 'If your sensitive son cannot endure the scent
of warm blood, we would not urge him to undertake the protection of our
person. We had understood from the young daughter of Gallus that he was a
brave man. In her sight he is highly esteemed, and it was to please her that
we brought him home, and appointed him to command the Villa Guard. It is well
for her that his weakness is made manifest before he has had an opportunity
to bring disgrace upon her.'

This was too bitter a dose for Gallio to take without protest.

'Your Majesty places me in a difficult position,' he declared,
dangerously. 'It would be most unseemly in me to express a contrary opinion;
yet the Emperor would surely consider me mean and cowardly did I not venture
some defence of my own flesh and blood!'

Tiberius slobbered in the depths of his goblet for a moment that seemed
very long to Gallio. At length he came up wheezing.

'Very—hic—well! Say on!' The old man scrubbed his wet chin
with the back of a mottled hand. 'Defend your son!'

'Marcellus is not a weakling, sire. He is proud and brave; worthy of his
Roman citizenship and his rank as a Tribune. I do not fully understand why he
should have been so affected by the crucifixion of this Jew, except
that—'

'Go on! Except what?'

'He thinks the Galilean was innocent of any crime deserving so severe a
punishment. The Procurator himself declared the man innocent and tried to
argue in his behalf.'

'And then condemned him to death? What manner of justice does the Empire
administer in Jerusalem? Who is the Prefect now—this sleek and slimy
fellow, what's his name—Herod?'

'They tried him before Herod, yes—but it was Pontius Pilate who
sentenced him. Pilate is the Procurator.'

Tiberius laughed bitterly, coughed, and spat on the silk sleeve of his
robe.

'Pontius Pilate,' he snarled reminiscently. 'He's the dizzy one who built
that damned aqueduct. Wife wanted gardens. Had to have water. Robbed the
Temple to build an aqueduct. Fool! Had all the Jews in turmoil. Cost us
thousands of legionaries to put down the riots. Had we to do it again, we
would let Pilate settle his own account with the Jews! I never thought much
of the fellow, letting his silly, spoiled wife lead him about by the nose.'
The Emperor paused for breath. 'An impotent nobody,' he added, 'afraid of his
wife.' Having grimly pondered this final observation, Tiberius startled his
guest by breaking forth in a shrill, drunken guffaw. 'You are at liberty to
laugh too, Gallio,' he shouted. 'Afraid of his wife! Impotent nobody, 'fraid
of wife! Hi! Hi!'

Gallio grinned obligingly, but did not join in the Emperor's noisy
hilarity over his self-debasing joke. Tiberius was drunk, but he would be
sober again, and he might remember.

'And this serpent, Herod!' The Emperor rubbed his leaky old eyes with his
fists, and rambled on, thickly. 'Well do we know of his perfidies. A
loathsome leech, fattening on the blood of his countrymen. Gallio—I
have waged war in many lands. I have enslaved many peoples. I have put their
brave defenders to death. But—though I commanded their warriors to be
slain, I had much respect for their valour. But this Herod! This venomous
vulture! This slinking jackal! pretending to represent the interests of his
conquered fellow Jews, while licking our sandal-straps for personal
favours!—what a low creature he is! Yes, yes, I know, it is to the
Empire's advantage to have such poltroons in high office throughout all our
provinces—selling out their people, betraying them—' Exhausted by
his long speech, Tiberius broke off suddenly, gulped another throatful of
wine, dribbled a stream of it down his scrawny neck, explored his lips with a
clumsy tongue, retched, and muttered, 'I hate a traitor!'

'I have sometimes wondered, sire,' remarked Gallio, thinking some
rejoinder was expected, 'whether it really is to the advantage of the Empire
when we allow treacherous scoundrels like Herod to administer the affairs of
our subjugated provinces. Is it safe? Does it pay? Our subjects are
defrauded, but they are not deceived. Their hatred smoulders, but it is not
quenched.'

'Well, let them hate us, then,' growled Tiberius, tiring of the subject,
'and much good may it do them! The Roman Empire does not ask to be loved. All
she demands is obedience—prompt obedience—and plenty of it!' His
voice shrilled, truculently. 'Let them hate us! Let the whole world hate us!'
He clenched his gnarled old fists. The Chamberlain gently stroked his pillow
to soothe his passion, and ducked as one of the bony elbows shot up
unexpectedly in his direction.

Presently the heavy old head drooped. The Chamberlain ventured a
beseeching glance at the Senator, who half-rose from his chair, uncertain
whether to take the initiative in a withdrawal. Tiberius roused and swallowed
hard, making a wry face.

'We have gone far afield, Gallio,' he mumbled. 'We were discussing your
frail son. He crucified a harmless Jew, and the injustice of it put him to
bed, eh? And weeks afterwards, he is still brooding. Very peculiar! How do
you account for it?'

'The case is full of mystery, sire,' sighed Gallio. 'There is one small
matter of which I have not spoken. It concerns this Jew's robe.'

'Eh?' Tiberius leaned forward, spurred to curiosity. 'Robe? What about a
robe?'

Gallio debated with himself, for a moment, how best to proceed, half-sorry
he had alluded to the incident.

'My son was accompanied by his Greek slave, a quite intelligent fellow. It
is from him that I have this feature of the story. It seems that when the
Galilean was crucified, his discarded robe lay on the ground, and my son and
other officers—whiling the time away—cast dice for it. Marcellus
won it.'

Tiberius was sagging into his pillow, disappointed with so dull a
tale.

'That night,' continued Gallio, 'there was a banquet at Pilate's Insula.
According to the slave, my son was far from happy, but there was nothing
peculiar in his behaviour during or after the crucifixion. He had been
drinking heavily, but otherwise was of normal mind. At the banquet, one of
his staff officers from Minoa, far gone with wine, urged him to put on this
Jew's robe.' Gallio paused, and the old man's face showed a renewed
interest.

'Well?' he queried, impatiently. 'Did he put it on?'

Gallio nodded.

'Yes, and he has never been the same since.'

'Ha!' exclaimed the Emperor, brightening. 'Now we are getting somewhere
with this story! Does your son think the Jew laid a curse on his robe?'

'It is hard to say what my son thinks, sire. He is very reticent.'

Suddenly a light shone in the old man's eyes.

'Ah, I see! That is why you sent him to Athens! He will consult the
learned astrologers, soothsayers, and those who commune with the dead! But
why Athens? There are better men at Rhodes. Or, you might have sent him here!
There are no wiser men than my Rhodesian, Telemarchus!'

'No, Your Majesty; we did not send Marcellus to Athens to consult the
diviners. We urged him to go away, for a time, so that he might not be
embarrassed by meeting friends in his unhappy state of mind.'

'So, the dead Jew's robe is haunted?' Tiberius smacked his lips. This tale
was much to his liking. 'The Jews are a queer people; very religious; believe
in one god. Evidently this Galilean was a religious fanatic, if he got
himself into trouble with the Temple; had some new kind of religion,
maybe.'

'Did Your Majesty ever hear of the Messiah?' inquired Gallio.

The Emperor's jaw slowly dropped and his rheumy eyes widened.

'Yes,' he answered, in a hoarse whisper. 'He that is to come. They're
always looking for him, Telemarchus says. They've been expecting him for a
thousand years, Telemarchus says. He that is to come—and set up a
kingdom.' The old man chuckled, mirthlessly. 'A kingdom, Telemarchus says; a
kingdom that shall have no end; and the government shall be upon his
shoulders. Telemarchus says it is written. I let him prattle. He is old. He
says the Messiah will reign, one day, in Rome! Hi! Hi! I let Telemarchus
prattle. Were he younger, by a century or two, I would have him whipped for
his impudence. A Messiah—huh! A kingdom—pouf!
Well'—Tiberius returned from his rumbling monologue—'what were
you starting to say about the Messiah?'

'Nothing, sire, except that there was a strong feeling among the common
people—my son's slave says—that this Galilean Jew was the
promised Messiah.'

'What?' shouted Tiberius. 'You don't believe that, Gallio!'

'I am not religious, sire.'

'What do you mean—you're not religious? You believe in the gods, do
you not?'

'I have no convictions on the subject, Your Majesty. The gods are remote
from my field of study, sire.'

Tiberius scowled his stern disapproval.

'Perhaps Senator Gallio will presently be telling us that he does not
believe his Emperor is divine!'

Gallio bowed his head and meditated a reply.

'How about it?' demanded the old man, hotly. 'Is the Emperor divine?'

'If the Emperor thought he was divine,' replied Gallio, recklessly, 'he
would not need to ask one of his subjects to confirm it.'

This piece of impudence was so stunning that Tiberius was at a loss for
appropriate words. After a long, staring silence he licked his dry lips.

'You are a man of imprudent speech, Gallio,' he muttered, 'but honest
withal. It has been refreshing to talk with you. Leave us now. We will have
further conversation in the morning. We are sorry your son cannot accept our
appointment.'

'Good night, sire,' said Gallio. He retreated toward the door. Something
in his weighted attitude stirred the old man's mellowed mind to sympathy.

'Stay!' he called. 'We shall find a place for the son of our excellent
Gallio. Marcellus shall do his sculpture and attend the learned lectures. Let
him dabble in the arts and drowse over the philosophies. Let him perfect
himself in logic and metaphysics. By the gods! there are other things needful
at this court besides watching at keyholes and strutting with swords! Your
son shall be our preceptor. He shall lecture to us. We are weary of old men's
counsel. Marcellus shall give us a youthful view of the mysteries.
Gallio—inform your son of our command!'

'Your Majesty is most kind,' murmured the Senator, gratefully. 'I shall
advise my son of your generous words, sire. Perhaps this appointment may help
to restore his ailing mind.'

'Well, if it doesn't'—the old man yawned mightily—'it won't
matter. All philosophers are sick in the head.' He grinned, slowly sank back
into his pillows, and the leathery lips puffed an exhausted breath. The
Emperor of Rome was asleep.

* * * * *

Informed by the Chamberlain that His Imperial Majesty was not yet awake,
the Senator breakfasted in his room and set out for a walk. It had been many
years since he had visited Capri; not since the formal opening of the Villa
Jovis when the entire Senate had attended the festivities, memorable for
their expensiveness rather than their impressiveness. Although fully informed
about the enormously extravagant building operations on the island, he had
not clearly pictured the magnitude of these undertakings. They had to be seen
to be believed! Tiberius might be crazy, but he was an accomplished
architect.

Walking briskly on the broad mosaic pavement to the east end of the mall,
Gallio turned aside to a shaded arbour, sank into a comfortable chair, and
dreamily watched the plume of blue smoke floating lazily above Vesuvius.
Somehow the sinister old mountain seemed to symbolize the Empire; tremendous
power under compression; occasionally spewing forth sulphurous fumes and
molten metals. Its heat was not the kind that warmed and cheered, nor did its
lava grow harvests. Vesuvius was competent only as a destroyer. They who
dwelt in its shadow were afraid.

The same thing was true of the Empire, reflected Gallio. 'Let them hate
us!' old Tiberius had growled. 'Let the whole world hate us!' Long before the
Cæsars, that surly boast had brought disaster to the Persians, the Egyptians,
and the Greeks. Nemesis had laughed at their arrogance, and swept
them—cursing impotently, into servitude.

Gallio wondered if he would be alive to witness the inevitable breakup of
the Empire. What plans had Nemesis in mind for the disposal of Rome? What
would be the shape of the new dynasty? Who would rise—and
whence—to demolish the thing that the Cæsars had built? Last night the
disgusting old drunkard Tiberius had seemed almost frightened when he
rehearsed the cryptic patter of the Jewish prophets. 'He that is to come.'
Ah, yes, Tiberius saw the crisis nearing! Maybe the superstitious old fellow
had never defined his exact reasons for being so deeply interested in the
oracles and enchantments and ponderous nonsense of his avaricious soothsayers
and stargazers; but that was IT! Tiberius saw the Empire drifting toward the
cataract! 'He that is to come!' Well, somebody would come, and the government
would be upon his shoulders—but he wouldn't be a Jew! That was
impossible! That was ridiculous!

Completely absorbed by his grim speculations, Gallio did not observe
Diana's arrival until she stood directly before him, tall, slim, vital. She
smiled and graciously held out her hand.

It was the first time he had had an opportunity for conversation with her,
beyond the brief greetings they had exchanged when she came to visit Lucia.
Until lately, Diana was only a little girl, shy and silent in his presence,
but reputed to be high-spirited almost to the extent of rowdiness. In recent
weeks, apprised of a growing attachment between his son and the daughter of
Gallus, he had become somewhat more aware of her; but, this morning, it was
almost as if he had never seen her before. Diana had grown up. She had taken
on the supple grace and charming contours of a woman. She was beautiful! No
wonder that Marcellus had fallen in love with her.

He rose to his feet, bowed deeply, and was warmed by her firm handclasp.
Her steady eyes were set wide apart, framed in long, curling lashes, and
arched by exquisitely modelled brows. The red silk fillet accented the
blue-blackness of her hair, the whiteness of her patrician forehead, the pink
flush on her cheeks. Gallio looked into the level eyes with frank admiration.
They were quite disturbingly feminine, but fearless and forthright as the
eyes of a man; an inheritance from her father, perhaps. Gallus had a
delightful personality, and an enviable poise, but—just underneath his
amiability—there was the striking strength of a coiled spring in a
baited trap. Diana's self-possessed smile and confident handclasp instantly
won the Senator's respect, though the thought darted through his mind that
the arrestingly lovely daughter of Gallus was equipped with all the
implements for having her own way, and, if any attempt were made to thwart
her—would prove to be a handful indeed.

'May I join you, Senator Gallio?' Diana's full lips were girlish, but her
well-disciplined voice was surprisingly mature.

'Please sit down, my dear.' The Senator noted the easy grace of her
posture as she took the chair opposite, artless but alert. 'I was hoping to
have a talk with you,' he went on, resuming his seat.

Diana smiled encouragingly, but made no rejoinder; and Gallio, measuring
his phrases, proceeded in a manner almost didactic:

'Marcellus came home from his long voyage, a few days ago, ill and
depressed. He was grateful—we are all grateful, Diana—for your
generous part in bringing him back to us. Marcellus will be eager to express
his deep appreciation. But—he is not ready to resume his usual
activities. We have sent him away—to Athens—hopeful that a change
of environment may divert his gloomy mind.'

Gallio paused. He had anticipated an involuntary exclamation of surprise
and regret, but Diana made no sound; just sat there, keenly attentive,
alternately studying his eyes and his lips.

'You see,' he added, 'Marcellus has had a severe shock!'

'Yes, I know,' she nodded, briefly.

'Indeed? How much do you know?'

'Everything you told the Emperor.'

'But—the Emperor is not yet awake.'

'I have not seen him,' said Diana. 'I had it from Nevius.'

'Nevius?'

'The Chamberlain.'

Gallio stroked his cheek thoughtfully. This Nevius must be a talkative
fellow. Diana interpreted his dry smile.

'But you had intended to tell me, had you not?' she reminded him. 'Nevius
is not a common chatterer, sir: I must say that for him. He is very
close-mouthed. Sometimes,' she went on, ingenuously, 'it is difficult to make
Nevius tell you everything that is going on at the Villa.'

The Senator's lips slowly puckered and his shoulders twitched with a
silent chuckle. He was on the point of asking her if she had ever thought of
taking up diplomacy as a profession; but the matter at issue was too serious
for badinage. He grew suddenly grave.

'Now that you know—about Marcellus—I need not repeat the
painful story.'

'It is all very strange.' Diana's averted eyes were troubled. 'According
to Nevius, it was an execution that upset Marcellus.' Her expressive eyes
slowly returned to search the Senator's sober face. 'There must be more to it
than that, sir. Marcellus has seen cruel things done. Who has not? Is not the
arena bloody enough? Why should Marcellus sink into grief and despair because
he had to put a man to death?—no matter who—no matter how! He has
seen men die!'

'This was a crucifixion, Diana,' said the Senator, quietly.

'And perfectly ghastly, no doubt,' she agreed, 'and Nevius says there was
much talk of the man's innocence. Well—that wasn't Marcellus's fault.
He didn't conduct the trial, nor chose the manner of execution. I can
understand his not wanting to do it, but surely no amount of brooding is
going to bring this poor Jew back to life! There is a mystery behind it, I
think. Nevius had a tale about a haunted robe, and darkness in the middle of
the afternoon, and a confused jumble about a predicted Messiah, or something
like that. Does Marcellus think he has killed a person of great importance?
Is that what's fretting him?'

'I shall tell you the very little that I know about it, Diana, and you may
draw your own conclusions. As for me, it has been difficult to arrive at any
sensible solution to the problem.' Gallio frowned studiously. 'For ages, the
Jewish prophets have predicted the coming of a champion of their people's
liberty. This fearless chieftain would restore the Jews' kingdom. Indeed, the
traditional forecast (according to Emperor Tiberius, who is learned in all
occult matters) is of wider scope, prefiguring a king with a more extensive
dominion than the mere government of poor little Palestine.'

'Somebody the size of the Cæsars?' wondered Diana.

'At least,' nodded Gallio, with a brief, derisory grin. 'Now, it happens
that a very considerable number of Jews thought they had reason to believe
that this Galilean, whom the Temple executives and the Roman provincial
government tried for treason and heresy, was their promised
Messiah—'

'But, surely,' broke in Diana, 'Marcellus doesn't believe anything like
that! He's the last person in the world!'

'That is true,' agreed Gallio. 'He is not superstitious. But—
according to Demetrius, who was present throughout the whole affair, it was a
strange occasion. The Jew's demeanour at the trial was, to say the least,
unusual. Demetrius says everybody was on trial but the prisoner; says the
man's behaviour on the cross was heroic. And Demetrius is a cold-blooded
fellow, not accustomed to inventing lies.'

'What do you think about the robe?' queried Diana.

'I have no ideas,' confessed the Senator. 'Marcellus had had a hard day.
He was nervous, ashamed, overwrought. He may have been a victim of his own
imagination. But—when he put on that robe, it did something to him! We
may not like the implications of this problem, but—well—there it
is! You doubtless think it is silly to believe that the Jew's robe is
haunted, and so do I. All such idiotic prattle is detestable to me! I do not
believe there is any energy resident in an inanimate thing. As for the
Messiah legend, I have no interest in it. Whether the Galilean was justly
accused, or not, is a closed incident, of no concern to me. But, after all of
these considerations are dismissed, either as foolish or finished, Marcellus
is worrying himself into madness. That much, at least, we know for a fact.'
Gallio rubbed his wrinkled brow and gave a hopeless sigh.

'Nevius says the Emperor wants Marcellus to come to Capri as a teacher,'
said Diana, after the brief silence between them. 'We don't want him to do
that; do we, sir?'

'I find it difficult to see Marcellus in that rôle,' agreed Gallio. 'He
has but scant respect for the kind of learning that engages the mind of the
Emperor.'

'Do you think he will consent?'

'Well'—Gallio made a helpless little gesture—'Marcellus may
not have much choice in the matter. He is, at present, able to remain in
Athens. But when he comes home, he will have to obey the Emperor's order,
whether he enjoys it or not.'

Suddenly Diana leaned forward, her face clouded with anxiety.

'Tell him not to come home,' she whispered. 'He mustn't come here!' She
rose, and Gallio, mystified, rose to his feet, regarding her with serious
interest. 'I must tell you something,' she went on, nervously. She took him
by the arm and pointed to a long row of stakes, with little flags fluttering
on them. 'This is where the Emperor is going to build the beautiful new
villa. He is drawing the plans for it now. When it is finished, it is to be
mine.'

Gallio stared.

'Yours?' he said, woodenly. 'Do you mean you want to live here, under the
thumb of this cruel, crazy old man?'

Diana's eyes were full of tears. She shook her head, and turned her face
away, still holding tightly to the Senator's arm.

'He suggested it, sir, when I was pleading with him to bring Marcellus
home,' she confided, brokenly. 'It wasn't exactly a condition to his promise
to send for Marcellus, but—he seems now to think it was. I thought he
would forget about it. He forgets almost everything. But I'm afraid he means
to go through with it. That is why he wants Marcellus here. It is to be our
villa.'

'Well,' soothed Gallio. 'Why not, then? Is it not true that Marcellus and
you are in love?'

Diana nodded and bent her head.

'There will be much trouble if he comes to Capri,' she said, huskily.
Then, dashing the tears from her eyes and facing Gallio squarely, she said,
'I must tell you all about it. Please don't try to do anything. Gaius has
been here twice recently. He wants me to marry him. The Emperor will not let
me go home. I have written to my mother and I know the letter was not
delivered.'

'I shall tell her to come to you, at once!' declared Gallio, hotly.

'No, no, not yet, please!' Diana clutched his arm with both hands, 'Maybe
there will be some other way out! I must not put my mother in danger!'

At sunrise on the seventh day of September a market gardener
with fresh fruits and vegetables for the House of Eupolis reported that the
Vestris has been sighted off Piræus.

Feeling sure there must be letters for him on the ship, and unwilling to
await their sluggish delivery through the Tetrarch's Insula in the city,
Marcellus engaged a port-wagon and set off at once, accompanied by
Demetrius.

Ordinarily the slave would have sat by the driver, but, of late, Demetrius
and his master had been conducting all of their conversations in Aramaic. It
was not an easy tongue, and when they spoke they enunciated carefully,
watching each other's lips. This morning they sat side by side in the rear
seat of the jolting wagon, and anyone casually observing them would not have
guessed that one of these young men owned the other. Indeed, Demetrius was
taking the lead in the conversation, occasionally criticizing his master's
accent.

Every morning after breakfast, for several weeks, Demetrius had gone to
Benjamin's shop for instruction, spending the day until late afternoon. The
old weaver had not asked to be recompensed for his services as a pedagogue.
It would be a pleasure to him, he said. But as the days went by, Demetrius
began to be useful in the shop, quickly picking up deftness in carding and
spinning. In the evenings, he relayed his accumulating knowledge of Aramaic
to Marcellus who, unwilling to be in Benjamin's debt, had presented him (in
spite of his protest) with two great bales of long-fibred Egyptian cotton and
several bags of selected wools from the Cyprian Mountains where fleeces were
appropriate to a severe climate.

Benjamin, who had no talent for flattery, had been moved to volunteer the
statement—after a month had passed—that Demetrius was making
surprising progress. If that were true, Demetrius had remarked, it was
because he had received such clear instruction, to which Benjamin had replied
that the best way to learn anything is to explain it to somebody else.
Marcellus was absorbing his Aramaic with enthusiasm, but none-the-less
thoroughly; for Demetrius was holding him to it with a tactful but relentless
tyranny.

On the way to Piræus, they were engaged in an animated discussion of the
Ten Commandments, Marcellus approving of them, Demetrius complaining that
they were unjust. On occasions, he became so enthusiastic in advocating his
cause that he abandoned the Aramaic and took to the Greek, much to his
master's amusement.

'But, sir, they are so unfair! "Thou shalt not steal." Very good; but
there is no Commandment enjoining the man of property to deal generously with
the poor, so they would have no wish to steal! "Thou shall not covet!" Good
advice; no doubt. But is it fair to tell the poor man he mustn't be envious
of the rich man's goods—and then forget to admonish the rich man that
he has no right to be so selfish?'

'Oh—you're just looking at it from the slave angle,' objected
Marcellus. 'You're prejudiced. The only fault I can find with the
Commandments is their injunction against sculpture. This Jehovah was
certainly no patron of the arts.'

'That was to keep them from making idols,' explained Demetrius.

'I know—but what's the matter with idols? They're usually quite
artistic. The ordinary run of people are bound to worship something: it had
better be something lovely! Old Zeus didn't raise a row when the Greek
sculptors carved a flock of gods—all shapes and sizes—take your
pick. There must be forty of them on Mars' Hill! They even have one up there
in honour of "The Unknown God."'

'I wonder what Zeus thought of that one?' speculated Demetrius.

'He probably laughed,' said Marcellus. 'He does laugh, sometimes, you
know. I think that's the main trouble with Jehovah. He doesn't laugh.'

'Maybe he doesn't think the world is very funny,' observed Demetrius.

'Well, that's his fault, then,' said Marcellus, negligently. 'If he
created it, he should have made it a little funnier.'

'Nothing!' shouted Fulvius. 'The fellow saves my life, and now declares it
was nothing! Demetrius, you should be put in chains for that!' He turned to
Marcellus. 'You were too ill to be interested in the story, sir; so we did
not bother you with it. A mad slave—it gets quite hot, down in the
bottom tier, sir—managed to slip his bracelet, one night, when we were
standing off Alexandria; sneaked up on deck, and had a belaying-pin raised to
dash my brains out. And your Demetrius got there just in time!'

'I am glad I happened to be standing by, sir,' said Demetrius.

'So am I!' declared the Captain, fervently. 'Well, it's good to see you
both. There are letters for you, I notice, Legate. I asked the Tribune to
take them to you when he went to deliver the message from the Emperor, but he
is a haughty young fellow; said he was not a common errand-boy.'

'Message from the Emperor?' queried Marcellus, uneasily.

'You have not yet received it, then? Perhaps you passed the magnificent
Tribune on the way. Will you stay and break bread with us?'

'It would be a pleasure, Captain Fulvius; but I should return without
delay. This Tribune may be waiting.'

'Aye! He will be waiting and fuming; a restless fellow, who takes his
duties hard; a very important fellow, too, who likes to give orders.' Fulvius
sighed unhappily. 'And I shall have him on my hands for another threescore
and five days, at least; for he is bearing a message also to Pontius Pilate
in Jerusalem—and returns on the Vestris.'

'Can't you pitch him overboard?' suggested Marcellus.

'I can,' grinned Fulvius, 'but my wife is expecting me back in Ostia by
early December. Legate, if you can spare Demetrius for the day, shall he not
tarry with me?'

Marcellus was about to give his consent, but hesitated.

'He may come to-morrow, Fulvius, if you wish it. Perhaps he had best
return with me now. This message from the Emperor might make some alterations
in our plans.'

Marcellus was more eager than the shambling horses to return to the city,
but even at their plodding gait it was an uncomfortable ride, certainly not
conducive to the pleasant perusal of letters, for the dusty, deep-rutted
highway was crammed with lumbering wagons and overburdened camel-trains,
requiring frequent excursions to the ill-conditioned roadside.

He slit the seal of his father's bulky scroll, happy to note that it
contained also messages from his mother and Lucia. Diana's letter—he
was surprised to find it addressed from Capri—might have been read
first had the circumstances been more favourable. Marcellus revolved the
scroll in his hands and decided he would enjoy it later in private.

'Evidently the daughter of Gallus had occasion to reopen her letter after
sealing it,' he remarked, more to himself than Demetrius, who sat idly
observant as his master inspected the scroll.

More painstakingly, Marcellus examined the scroll again, picking at the
second application of wax with the point of his dagger.

'You're right,' he muttered. 'The letter has been tampered with.'

'By a woman,' added Demetrius. 'There is her finger-mark.'

Frowning with annoyance, Marcellus tucked Diana's scroll into the breast
of his tunic, and began silently reading his father's letter. He had just
returned from Capri (he wrote) where he had explained his son's sudden
departure.

'It was imperative that I should be entirely frank with the
Emperor'—the letter went on—'because you had no more than reached
open sea before a message arrived appointing you—'

'Demetrius, I bid you listen to this!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'The Emperor
has appointed me Commander of the Guard—at Capri! Doubtless that is the
import of the message I am receiving to-day. Commander of the Guard at Capri!
What do you suppose the Commander of the Capri Guard has to do?'

The intimate tone meant that Demetrius was not only temporarily
emancipated, but would probably be reproached if he failed to make prompt use
of his privilege to speak on terms of equality.

'Taste soup, I should think,' he ventured. 'And sleep in his
uniform—with one eye open.'

'While his slave sleeps with both eyes open,' remarked Marcellus in the
same manner. 'I dare say you're right. The island is a hotbed of jealousy and
conspiracy. One's life wouldn't be worth a punched denarius.' Resuming the
letter, he read on for a time with a deepening scowl.

'I am not receiving that appointment,' he glanced up to say. 'My father
advises me that the Emperor has something else in mind. Let me read what he
says:—"He was much interested in what I felt obliged to tell him of
your unpleasant experience in Jerusalem. And when I informed him that this
crucified Jew was thought by some to have been the Messiah—"' Marcellus
suddenly broke off and stared into Demetrius's face. 'How do you suppose my
father found that out?' he demanded.

'I told him,' said Demetrius, with prompt candour. 'Senator Gallio
insisted on a full account of what happened up there. I thought it due to
you, sir, that an explanation be made—seeing you were in no condition
to make it yourself.'

'That's true enough,' admitted Marcellus, grimly. 'I hope you did not feel
required to tell the Senator about the Galilean's robe.'

'Yes, sir. The robe was responsible for your—your illness. The
story—without the robe—would have been very confusing.'

'You mean—it was quite clear—with the robe included?'

'No, sir. Perhaps that part of it will always be a mystery.'

'Well, let us get on with this.' Marcellus took up the scroll and resumed
his reading aloud: '"The Emperor was stirred to an immense curiosity, for he
is deeply learned in all of the religions. He has heard much about the
messianic prophecies of the Jews. He wishes you to pursue your studies in
Athens, especially concerning the religions, and return to Capri as a
teacher." A TEACHER!' Marcellus laughed, self-derisively; but Demetrius did
not smile. 'Do not you think this funny, Demetrius?' he insisted. 'Can you
picture ME—lecturing to that menagerie?'

'No, sir,' replied Demetrius, soberly, 'I do not think this is funny. I
think it is a disaster!'

'You mean—I'll be bored?'

'Worse than bored!' exclaimed Demetrius, recklessly. 'It is a contemptible
position, if you ask me, sir! The Emperor is said to have a large contingent
of astrologers, diviners of oracles, ghost-tenders, dream-mechanics—and
all that sort of thing—clustered about him. It would be a sorry
business for my master to be engaged in!'

Marcellus had begun to share the Corinthian's seriousness.

'You think he wants me to teach a mess of superstitious nonsense?'

'Yes,' nodded Demetrius. 'He wants to hear some more about that robe.'

'But that isn't superstitious nonsense!' objected Marcellus.

'No—not to us—but it will be little else than that by the time
Emperor Tiberius and his soothsayers have finished discussing it.'

'You feel deeply about this, Demetrius,' said Marcellus, gently.

'Well, sir, I don't want to see the robe reviled by that loathsome old
man—and his crew of lunatics!'

Marcellus pretended to be indignant.

'Are you aware, Demetrius, that your references to the Emperor of Rome
might be considered bordering on disrespect?' They both grinned, and
Marcellus took up his father's letter again, reading aloud, slowly:

'"I doubt whether you would have any relish for this employment, my son.
The Emperor is of strange, erratic mind. However, this is his command, and
you have no choice but to obey. Fortunately, you are permitted to remain in
Athens for a reasonable length of time, pursuing your studies. We are all
eager to have you back in Rome, but I cannot counsel you to speed your
return."'

There was no reference to Diana. Marcellus thought this odd, for surely
Diana must have been at the Villa Jovis while his father was there. He was
anxious to read her letter. It disquieted him to know that she was a guest on
that sinister island. Someone had opened her scroll. Someone was spying on
her. It was not a safe place for Diana.

* * * * *

The House of Eupolis was apparently in a great state of excitement. It was
not every day that a flashily uniformed Tribune arrived with a message from
the Emperor of Rome; and the whole establishment, habitually reserved, was
undeniably impressed by the occasion.

Dion, grave-faced and perspiring freely, was pacing up and down the
driveway as the battered old port-wagon entered the gate.

'You must make haste, Marcellus!' he pleaded, in a frightened voice, as
they pulled up beside him. 'There is a message from the Emperor! The Tribune
has been waiting in a rage, shouting that if you did not soon arrive he would
report our house to the Tetrarch!'

'Be at ease, Dion,' said Marcellus, calmly. 'You are not at fault.'
Dismissing the carriage, he proceeded up the driveway, passing a huddle of
scared garden-slaves who stared at him with awe and sympathy. Theodosia and
her Aunt Ino hovered about her mother, who sat stiffly apprehensive in the
swing. The pompous figure of the Tribune strutted imperiously before the
entrance to the house.

Instantly Marcellus recognized Quintus Lucian! So that was why the fellow
was showing off. Gaius's pet—Quintus! Doubtless the creature had had no
stomach for his errand. That explained his obnoxious conduct on the ship.
Gaius was probably in a red-hot fury because the old man at Capri had gone
over his head with orders for Marcellus's return from Minoa; and now the
Emperor had sent this detestable Quintus with a message—and there
hadn't been anything that Quintus, or Gaius, either, could do about it.

'And how long shall the Emperor's envoy be kept waiting?' he snarled, as
Marcellus drew nearer with Demetrius following at a few paces.

'I had not been advised to be on the alert for a message from His
Majesty,' rejoined Marcellus, trying to keep his temper. 'But now that I am
here, Tribune Quintus, I suggest that you perform your errand with the
courtesy that a Roman expects from an officer of his own rank.'

'Yes, but I advise you not to keep me waiting long! His Majesty's envoys
are not accustomed to wasting their time at Greek inns.' The tone was so
contemptuous that it could have only one meaning. Demetrius moved forward a
step and stood at attention. Marcellus, white with anger, made no retort.

'I shall read this in private, Quintus,' he said, crisply, 'and prepare a
reply. You may wait—or you may return for it—as you prefer.' As
he strode away, he muttered to Demetrius, 'You remain here.'

After Marcellus had disappeared, on his way to his suite, Quintus
swaggered toward Demetrius and faced him with a surly grin.

'You his slave?' He nodded in the general direction Marcellus had
taken.

'Yes, sir.'

'Who is the pretty one—by the swing?' demanded Quintus, out of the
corner of his mouth.

'She is the daughter of Eupolis, sir,' replied Demetrius, stiffly.

'Indeed! We must make her acquaintance while we wait.' Shouldering past
Demetrius, he stalked haughtily across the lawn, accenting each arrogant step
with a sidewise jerk of his helmet. Dion, pale and flustered, scurried along
toward the swing. Demetrius slowly followed.

With elegantly sandalled feet wide apart and arms akimbo, Quintus halted
directly before Theodosia, ignoring the others, and looked her over with an
appraising leer. He grinned, disrespectfully.

'You are fortunate, fellow, to have so fair a daughter. We must know her
better.' Quintus reached for her hand, and Theodosia recoiled a step, her
eyes full of fear. 'Timid, eh?' He laughed contemptuously. 'Since when was
the daughter of a Greek innkeeper so frugal with her smiles?'

'But I implore you, Tribune!' Dion's voice was trembling. 'The House of
Eupolis has ever been respectable. You must not offend my daughter!'

'Must not—indeed!' crowed Quintus. 'And who are you—to be
advising the envoy of the Emperor what he must not do? Be gone, fellow!' He
thrust out an arm toward Phoebe and Ino. 'You, too!' he barked. 'Leave
us!'

Deathly white, Phoebe rose unsteadily and took a few steps, Ino supporting
her. Dion held his ground for a moment, panting with impotent anger, but
began edging out of range as their enemy fumbled for his dagger.

'My master ordered me to remain, sir,' replied Demetrius; then, to
Theodosia, 'You had better go with your father to the house.'

Purple with rage, Quintus whipped out his dagger and lunged forward.
Demetrius sprang to meet the descending arm, which he caught at the wrist
with a tiger-claw grip of his right hand while his left crashed into the
Tribune's face. It was a staggering blow that took Quintus completely by
surprise. Before he could regain his balance, Demetrius had sent another
full-weight drive of his left' fist into the Tribune's mouth. The relentless
finger-nails cut deep into his wrist and the dagger fell from his hand. The
battle was proceeding too rapidly for Quintus. Dazed and disarmed, he struck
wildly, blindly, while Demetrius, pressing forward step by step, continued to
shoot stunning blows into the mutilated face.

Quintus was quite at his mercy now, and Demetrius knew it would be simple
enough to administer the one decisive uppercut to the jaw that would excuse
the Emperor's envoy from any further participation in the fight; but a strong
desire had laid hold on him to see how much damage could be inflicted on the
Tribune's face before he finally put him away. It was becoming a very
sanguinary engagement. Both of Demetrius's fists were red with blood as they
shot into the battered eyes and crashed against the broken nose. Quintus was
making no defence now. Bewildered and blinded with blood, he yielded ground
with staggering steps until he had been driven backwards to a huge pine,
where he put out a hand for support. He breathed with agonized, whistling
sobs.

'You'll die for this!' he squeaked, through swollen lips.

'Very well!' panted Demetrius. 'If I'm to die for punishing
you—!'

Grabbing Quintus by the throat-strap of his helmet, he completed the ruin
of his shockingly mangled face. Then, satisfied with his work, he
deliberately drew back his arm and put his full strength behind an ultimate
drive at the point of the Tribune's jaw. The knees buckled and Quintus sank
limply to the ground.

The Eupolis family had withdrawn some distance while the punishment was
being administered. Now Dion came running up, ghastly pale.

'Have you killed him?' he asked, hoarsely.

Demetrius, breathing heavily, was examining his bruised and bleeding
hands. He shook his head.

'We will all be thrown into prison,' moaned Dion.

'Don't think of trying to escape,' advised Demetrius. 'Stay where you
are—all of you. You had nothing to do with it. That can be proved.' He
started to walk away toward his master's suite.

'Shall I do anything for this fellow?' called Dion.

'Yes—bring a basin of water and towels. He will be coming round
presently. And if he shows fight, send for me—and tell him that if I
have to do this again, I shall kill him!'

Very much spent, Demetrius walked slowly to their quarters and proceeded
through to the peristyle where Marcellus sat at the table writing, his face
brightly animated. He did not look up from his letter.

'Demetrius! The Emperor commands me to go to Palestine and learn what is
to be known—at first hand—about the Galilean!' Marcellus's voice
was vibrant. 'Could anything have been more to my liking? Tiberius wants to
know how much truth there is in the rumour that Jesus was believed to be the
Messiah. As for me—I care naught about that! I want to know what manner
of man he was! What a chance for us, Demetrius! We will pursue our Aramaic
diligently with old Benjamin. Come early spring, we will journey into
Galilee!' He signed his name to the letter, put down his stylus, pushed back
his chair, looked up into Demetrius's pale face. 'Why—what on earth
have you been doing?' he demanded.

'Well, from the look of your hands, I should say you had done a good job.
But Demetrius! this is very serious! Greek slaves can't do that—not to
Roman Tribunes—no matter how much it is needed!'

'Yes, I know, sir. I must run away. If I remain here, you will try to
defend me—and get into trouble. Please—shall I not go—at
once?'

'By all means!' insisted Marcellus. 'But where will you go? Where can you
go?'

'I don't know, sir. I shall try to get out into the country, into the
mountains, before the news spreads.'

'How badly is Quintus hurt?' asked Marcellus, anxiously.

'He will recover,' said Demetrius. 'I used no weapons. His eyes are
swollen shut—and his mouth is swollen open—and the last few times
I hit him on the nose, it felt spongy.'

'Has he gone?'

'No, he was still there.'

Marcellus winced and ran his fingers through his hair.

'Go, wash your hands—and pack a few things for your journey.'
Walking past Demetrius, he went to his bedroom and unlocking his strong-box
filled a silk bag with gold and silver talents and other coins of smaller
value. Returning, he sat down at the table, took up his stylus, wrote a page,
stamped it with his heavy seal ring, rolled it, and thrust it into a scroll.
'Here you are,' he said, when Demetrius reappeared. 'This money will befriend
you for the present—and this scroll contains your manumission. I shall
remain here until spring; the Ides of March, approximately. Then I shall go
to Jerusalem. I cannot tell how long I may be touring about in the
Palestinian provinces; all summer, certainly; perhaps longer. Then I am to
return to Capri and report to the Emperor. For that I have no relish; but we
will not borrow trouble.'

'Would I were going with you, sir!' exclaimed Demetrius.

'I shall miss you, Demetrius; but your first duty now is to put yourself
quickly out of danger. Try to let me know, as soon as safety permits, where
you are in hiding. Remember that I shall be burning to learn that you have
not been caught! Notify me of your needs. If you are captured, I shall leave
no stone unturned to effect your deliverance.'

'I know that, sir.' Demetrius's voice was unsteady. 'You are very kind. I
shall take the money. As for my freedom—not now.' He laid the scroll on
the table. 'If I were caught with this on me, they might think you had
rewarded me for punishing Quintus.' Drawing himself stiffly to attention, he
saluted with his spear. 'Farewell, sir. I am sorry to go. We may never meet
again.'

Marcellus reached out his hand.

'Good-bye, Demetrius,' he said, huskily. 'I shall miss you sorely. You
have been a faithful friend. You will be much in my thoughts.'

'Please tell Theodosia why I did not tarry to bid her farewell,' said
Demetrius.

'Anything between you two?' inquired Marcellus, with sudden interest.

'That much—at least,' admitted Demetrius.

They silently gripped each other's hands, and Demetrius sped away through
the rose garden.

Marcellus moved slowly back into the house, relocked his strong-box, and
went out by the front door. Dion was approaching, pale and agitated.

'You have heard, sir?' he asked, anxiously.

'How is he?' inquired Marcellus.

'Sitting up—but he is an unpleasant sight. He says he is going to
have us all punished.' Dion was shaken with fear.

'Tell me—what really happened?'

'The Tribune showed much disrespect for Theodosia. Your slave
remonstrated, and the Tribune lunged at him with his dagger. After
that—well—your Demetrius disarmed him and began striking him in
the face with his fists. It was a very brutal beating, sir. I had not thought
your gentle-spoken slave could be so violent. The Tribune is unrecognizable!
Has your slave hidden himself?'

'He is gone,' said Marcellus, much to Dion's relief.

Proceeding through the grove, they came upon the wretched Quintus, sitting
hunched under the tall pine, dabbing at his mutilated face with a bloody
towel. He looked up truculently and squinted through the slim red slit in a
purpling eye.

'When I inform the Tetrarch,' he declaimed, thickly, 'there will be prison
for you—and beheadings for the others.'

'What had you thought of telling the Tetrarch, Quintus?' inquired
Marcellus, with a derisive grin. 'And what do you think they will say, at the
Insula, when you report that after you had insulted a respectable young
woman, and had tried to stab a slave who intervened, you let the fellow
disarm you and beat you with his bare hands until you couldn't stand up? Go,
Quintus, to the Insula!' went on Marcellus, mockingly. 'Let them all see how
you look after having had a duel with a Greek slave! The Tetrarch will
probably tell you it was disgraceful enough for a Roman Tribune to be engaged
in a fight with a slave, even if he had come out of it victorious! Come,
then; let us go to the Insula, Quintus. I shall accompany you. I wouldn't
miss it for the world.'

Quintus patted his face gingerly.

'I shall not require your assistance,' he muttered.

'Let me put you up, sir,' wheedled Dion, 'until you feel better.'

'That is a good suggestion,' advised Marcellus. 'Dion certainly owes you
nothing for playing the scoundrel on his premises, but if he is willing to
give you shelter until you are fit to be seen, you would be wise to accept
his offer. I understand you are sailing on the Vestris, the day after
to-morrow. Better stay under cover here, and go directly to the ship when she
is ready to put off. Then none of your acquaintances at the Insula will have
an amusing story to tell about you, next time he visits Rome.'

'I shall have that slave of yours whipped to ribbons!' growled
Quintus.

'Perhaps you might like to do it yourself!' retorted Marcellus. 'Shall I
summon him?'

* * * * *

The grey days were short, cold, and tiresome. Marcellus had discovered how
heavily he had leaned on his Corinthian slave, not only for personal service
but for friendship and entertainment. Demetrius had become his alter ego.
Marcellus was lost and restless without him.

Nothing interesting happened. The days were all alike. In the morning he
went early to old Benjamin's shop for his regular ration of Aramaic, offered
mostly in the form of conversation. At noon he would return to the inn and
spend the rest of the daylight in his studio, hacking away without much
enthusiasm or inspiration on a marble head that resembled Diana Gallus less
and less, every day. It was still apparent that she was a girl, a Roman girl,
a quite pretty girl; but no one would have guessed that she was Diana.

And perhaps this was to be accounted for, surmised Marcellus, by the
increasing vagueness of Diana on the retina of his imagination. She was very
far away—and retreating. He had had two letters from her. The first,
from Capri, had been written in haste. She knew all about the Emperor's
orders that he was to continue his studies in Athens, and then proceed to
Jerusalem and the northern provinces of Palestine for authentic information
about that mysterious young Jew.

As for herself, Diana said, the Emperor had insisted on her remaining at
Capri for a few weeks; and, in view of his valued favours, she had decided to
do so. He had been very kind; he was lonely; she must stay.

Her second letter had been written from home. It, too, sounded as if the
carriage were waiting and someone were reading the words over her shoulder.
The letter was friendly enough, solicitous of his welfare, but wanting in the
little overtones of tenderness and yearning. It was as if their love had been
adjourned to await further development in some undated future. Marcellus
re-read this letter many times, weighing and balancing its phrases, trying to
decide whether Diana had been taking extra precautions in case the scroll
were read by a third party, or whether she was losing interest in their
affection. It might be one or the other: it might indeed be both. Her words
were not softly whispered. They were gentle—but clearly audible. And
they made him feel very lonely.

It was an important occasion, therefore, when the long letter arrived from
Demetrius. A light snow had fallen in the night and the sky was heavily
overcast. Marcellus had stood for a long time at the studio window debating
whether to go to Benjamin's shop to-day. But the light was too poor for
sculpturing. And the old man would be expecting him. With a mood to fit the
sullen sky, he made his way to the shop where Benjamin greeted him with
bright-eyed excitement.

'Here is a letter for you!'

'Indeed! Why was it sent here?'

'In my care. Addressed to me—but intended for you. It was brought by
a slave attached to a caravan, and delivered here last night by Zenos, the
noisy boy who runs errands for my friend Popygos. Demetrius, as you will see,
is in Jerusalem. I read that much of it. Your slave is prudent. Fearing a
letter addressed to you might be examined and reveal his whereabouts, he has
sent it to me.' Benjamin laughed as he handed over the scroll. 'Now you will
have an opportunity to put your Aramaic to practical use. It's very good
Aramaic, too!' he added proudly.

Marcellus drew up a stool beside the worktable, unrolled the end of the
long sheet of papyrus, and began reading aloud, with occasional hesitations
and appeals to Benjamin who delightedly came to his rescue.

Esteemed Master (read Marcellus), I am writing this on the Jewish Sabbath
in the upper chamber of an old house overlooking the Kidron, no great
distance from the Temple area. I share this room with one Stephanos, a Greek
of my own age, whom the Jews call Stephen. He is intelligent, well-informed,
and friendly. At present he is absent, on some mysterious errand; possibly
the same business that kept him out, last night, until shortly before
dawn.

I arrived in Jerusalem but three days ago. You will be curious to learn
the manner of my departure from Athens. Confident of Fulvius's friendship, I
ran to Piræus, boarded the Vestris, and confided my dilemma. Fulvius hid me
in the hold. When the ship stood well out to sea, on the second day, I was
brought on deck where I enjoyed full liberty. We had an important passenger
who was recovering from an accident that had disfigured his face. He kept to
his cabin until we had cleared from Alexandria. Recognizing me, he ordered
Fulvius to put me in irons, which Fulvius refused to do, saying that I had
paid my passage. This was untrue, though I had offered to pay. Fulvius told
the distinguished passenger that if he wished he could have me apprehended at
the next port.

We anchored at nightfall in the Bay of Gaza, and Fulvius secretly put me
ashore in the small boat. Providing myself with a few necessities, I
journeyed on foot over the same route taken by the Legion from Minoa to
Jerusalem. In a desolate wady, some twelve parasangs north-east of Ascalon, I
was captured and robbed by Bedouins, who did not otherwise harm me, and
permitted my escape. The weather was extremely cold and I was lightly clad.
That country is sparsely settled, as you may recall. The few inhabitants are
poor, and hostile to strangers. I learned to relish warm goat-milk and
frosted corn; and I was stoned while pillaging withered leeks from an
ill-kept garden. I discovered that eggs, sucked from the shell, are
delicious, and that a sleepy cow does not resent sharing her warmth with a
wayfarer seeking shelter in her stall. The cattle of Judea are hospitable. On
the last night of my journey I was pleasantly surprised by being permitted to
sleep in the stable of a tavern in the village of Bethlehem. In the morning
the innkeeper sent his servant with a dish of hot broth and a small loaf of
wheaten bread. The servant said it was a custom of the inn to befriend
impoverished travellers. I observed that on the corner of the napkin, in
which the bread was brought, there was embroidered the figure of a fish. It
stirred my curiosity a little because a similar design had been burned with
an iron into the timber of the stable-door. After leaving Bethlehem I
noticed, at two road-crossings, the crude outline of a fish, drawn in the
sand, and surmised that the device might indicate the direction taken by
someone who wished to leave this cryptic advice for another person following.
Not knowing what it meant—or caring very much—I dismissed the
matter from my mind.

Arriving in Jerusalem, hungry and footsore, I decided to seek the house of
a weaver, hoping I might be given some small tasks to provide me with food
and shelter. In this I was most fortunate. At the shop of Benyosef I was
kindly received by Stephanos, who works there. Learning that I am a Greek and
having been informed that I had done some carding and spinning for Benjamin
in Athens, whose name Stephanos recognized, he commended me to Benyosef, and
I was given employment. The wage is small, but consistent with the service I
render, and is ample to sustain me for the present. Stephanos bade me lodge
with him.

Of course, his interest in me is due, primarily, to the fact that I am a
Greek. His people were long ago of Philippi, his great-grandparents having
fled for refuge in Jerusalem when Macedonia was subjugated. It seems that
there are hundreds of Greeks here, whose ancestors migrated to Jerusalem for
the same reason. But many of them are literate; and Stephanos, who is a
student of the classics, longs for congenial company. He seemed pleased when,
in response to his queries, I told him I was at least somewhat conversant
with Greek literature.

On our first evening together, after we had eaten supper and were talking
of many things relating to the unhappy Greeks, Stephanos idly drew the
outline of a fish on the back of a papyrus tablet; and, pushing it across the
table, raised his brows inquiringly.

I told him it signified nothing to me, though I had seen the symbol
before. He then asked me if I had not heard of Jesus, the Galilean. I
admitted that I had—but not very much—and would be interested in
hearing more. He said that the people who believed in the teachings of Jesus
were being so savagely persecuted that they met only in secret. This
fish-emblem had been adopted as their method of identifying themselves to
others of similar belief. He did not tell me how they came to use this
device. Jesus was not a fisherman, but a carpenter.

Stephanos went on to say that Jesus advocated freedom for all men. 'Surely
a slave should ally himself with such a cause,' he said. I told him I was
deeply concerned, and he promised to tell me more about Jesus when there was
an opportunity.

The house of Benyosef, I am discovering, is not only a weaver's shop, but
a secret meeting-place for the men who were intimate friends of Jesus. My
position here is so lowly and menial that my presence is unnoticed by the
sober men who come neither to buy nor sell, but to slip in quietly and sit
beside the old man, whispering while he whacks his ancient loom. (Benjamin
would laugh at that loom.)

Yesterday a heavily-bearded man of great strength and stature spent an
hour in low-voiced conversation with Benyosef and two young fellows, in a far
corner of the shop. Stephanos said they were Galileans. The huge man, he
said, was called 'The Big Fisherman,' and the younger men, who were brothers,
he referred to as 'The Sons of Thunder.' 'The Big Fisherman' seems a very
forceful man. Perhaps he is the leader of the party, though why there should
be a party at all, or so much secrecy, now that their Jesus is dead and his
cause is lost, I do not pretend to understand. They all act as if they were
suppressing some excitement. It does not resemble the excitement of fear;
rather that of expectancy. They behave as if they had found something
valuable and had hidden it.

This afternoon, a tall, well-favoured man from the country came into the
shop and was greeted with much warmth. I gathered that they had not seen him
for some time. When the day's work was done, and Stephanos and I were on the
way to our lodging, I remarked of this man that he seemed an amiable person
whom everyone liked, and he unexpectedly confided that the man was Barsabas
Justus, of Sepphoris in Galilee. He then went on to say that Jesus had
appointed twelve friends to serve as his accredited disciples. One of them,
Judas of Kerioth, had betrayed Jesus' whereabouts to the priests. After his
master's arrest, he was filled with remorse and hanged himself. The eleven
disciples met later to elect a successor to this Judas, though why they felt
the necessity to do that, after Jesus was dead, Stephanos did not
explain.

They voted on two men who had followed Jesus about through the provinces,
hearing him speak to the people and witnessing many strange deeds of which
Stephanos may tell me when he is in a mood to speak more freely. I think he
wants first to make sure that I will respect his confidence. One of these two
men, Matthias by name, was elected to succeed the traitor Judas. The other
man is this Barsabas Justus.

I venture to suggest, sir, that when you come to Jerusalem to make
inquiries about Jesus' career, you could not do better than to contrive the
acquaintance of a man like Barsabas Justus. This will not be easy to do.
These friends of Jesus are watched closely for any indication that they are
attempting to extend or preserve his influence. The Temple authorities
evidently feel that the teachings of the Galilean contain the seeds of
revolution against the established religion, and the Insula has probably been
persuaded that the sooner everybody forgets about Jesus, the more likely it
may be that this next Passover season can be celebrated without a political
uprising.

During these past three days I have given much thought to a plan which
might assist you in getting up into Galilee without exciting suspicion. You
could appear in Jerusalem as a connoisseur of homespun fabrics, particularly
interested in the products of Galilean household looms. Let it be known that
such textiles are now highly esteemed in Rome. Inquire in the bazaars for
such fabrics and pay generously for a few articles. They are not considered
as of much value here, but might quickly become so if you permit yourself to
be well cheated in two or three shops. Rumour spreads rapidly in this
city.

In the course of your search for Galilean homespun you would naturally
call at the house of Benyosef, where you might let it be known that you
contemplate a trip into the region around Capernaum to look for textiles. You
could inquire whether it would be possible to employ, as a guide, some man
well acquainted with that country.

Of the several Galileans who visit the shop, Barsabas Justus would be the
most likely, I think, to accept such employment. The man they call 'The Big
Fisherman' is too passionately absorbed in whatever he is doing in the city
and 'The Sons of Thunder' appear to be weighted with duties, but Barsabas
Justus seems to have fewer responsibilities. Unquestionably he is your
man—if you can get him.

My belief is that they will scatter when Passover Week approaches, for the
Insula will be on the alert, and these Galileans will want to avoid useless
trouble. I suggest that you plan to arrive here about a month before the
Passover. Spring will be approaching, and the country will be beautiful. It
will be more prudent if you do not recognize me, even if we meet face to
face; for, unless I am mistaken, Stephanos will—by that time—have
taken me into his full confidence, and it would be most unfortunate if he
suspected collusion between us. Stephanos does not know that I have ever been
in Jerusalem before. If I can contrive a secret meeting when you come, I
shall be overjoyed to talk with you, but I think you should ignore me
completely. If a private conference is practical, I shall arrange for it and
let you know—somehow.

Marcellus glanced up at Benjamin, and grinned.

'That boy should have been a Jew!' declared the old man. 'He has a keen
mind—and is cunning.'

'Yes,' agreed Marcellus, dryly. 'I can see that a study of Aramaic has
done wonders for him. He is crafty. However, this advice sounds sensible
enough, don't you think?'

'I doubt it, my friend. This is a game that will have to be played with
the utmost care,' warned Benjamin. 'The Jews have no reasons for trusting the
Romans. Their confidence will not be easily won.'

'Do you think I might be able to pass myself off for a merchant?' inquired
Marcellus, doubtfully.

'A good way to find out,' suggested Benjamin, with a twinkle, 'is to go
over here to David Sholem's bazaar and buy something; and then go across the
street and try to sell it to old Aaron Barjona.' They both laughed.

'But, seriously,' said Marcellus. 'Do you think I might be able to get
into Galilee by any such scheme as the one Demetrius suggests?'

'Not a chance!' scoffed Benjamin.

'Not if I offered the fellow a handsome wage?'

Benjamin shook his head decisively.

'No—not for a handsome wage. This Barsabas Justus may have much to
give that you would like to know; but he will have nothing to sell.'

'You advise me not to attempt it?'

The old man laboriously threaded a needle, with many grotesque squints and
grimaces. Having accomplished it, he grinned, triumphantly, and deftly rolled
a tight knot into the end of the thread.

'It might be worth trying,' he grunted. 'These Galileans may be bigger
fools than we think.'

With almost no conversation they had eaten their lunch under
an old fig tree, a little distance from the highway, and were now lounging in
the shade.

Justus had stretched out his long frame on the grass, and with his fingers
laced behind his shaggy head was staring up through the broad leaves into a
bland April sky, his studious frown denoting perplexity.

Marcellus, reclining against the tree-trunk, moodily wished himself
elsewhere. He was restless and bored. Old Benjamin's pessimistic forecast
that this proposed expedition into Samaria and Galilee would be a
disappointment had turned out to be correct.

Arriving in Jerusalem two weeks ago, Marcellus had acted fully upon
Demetrius's written advice. Having engaged lodgings at the best inn, a
commodious old house with a garden, halfway up the hill toward the suburb of
Bethany, registering in the name of 'M. Lucan,' he had proceeded deliberately
to bewilder the downtown bazaars with inquiries for homespun fabrics and
garments—particularly articles of Galilean origin. He went from one
shop to another, naïvely admiring the few things they showed him; recklessly
purchasing robes and shawls at the first price quoted, professing to be
immensely pleased to have them at any cost. And when the merchants confessed,
with unfeigned lamentations, that their stock of Galilean textiles had run
low, he upbraided them for their lack of enterprise.

Then he had lain up, for a few days, lounging in the garden of the inn,
re-reading The Book of Yeshayah—old Benjamin's farewell gift—and
waiting for the rumour of his business transactions to be whispered about
among the clothing dealers. It was very trying to be so close to Demetrius
and unable to communicate with him. One day he almost persuaded himself that
this elaborate scheme for getting into Galilee was unnecessarily fantastic,
and he half-resolved to go down to Benyosef's shop and explain, in the most
forthright manner, that he had a desire to talk with men who had known Jesus
in his own community. But, upon reflection, he saw that such a course might
embarrass Demetrius; so he abandoned this impulsive procedure and impatiently
bided his time.

At mid-afternoon on the fifth day of that second week, he went to the
house of Benyosef, sauntering in casually to give the impression that he
really wanted to do business; for he had observed that, in Jerusalem, the
serious customer with his mind set on something he intended to buy invariably
tried to disguise his interest. The most ridiculous subterfuges were
practised. The customer would stroll in, pretending he had come to meet a
friend, or that he had lost his bearings and wanted to know how to find
Straight Street. On the way out he would pause to finger some article of
merchandise. Apparently these childish tricks deceived nobody. The more
indifferent the customer was, the more attentively the merchant hovered about
him. It was evident that all business in the Holy City was so full of
mendacity that a man who gave evidence of an honest purpose was immediately
suspected of rank imposture.

Pausing indecisively in the open doorway of Benyosef's shop, Marcellus
glanced about in search of Demetrius. It was not going to be easy, after this
long separation, to confront his loyal friend with the cool stare of a
stranger. A survey of the cluttered shop failed to reveal the presence of
Demetrius, but Marcellus was not sure whether he was disappointed or
relieved; for he had dreaded this moment.

The clatter of the two antiquated looms slowed and ceased as he made his
way toward the venerable weaver who, he felt, must be old Benyosef himself.
If the aged Jew was alarmed at the presence of an urbane young Roman in his
house, he gave no sign of it. He maintained his seat on the bench of his
loom, methodically polite but not obsequious. Marcellus briefly stated his
errand. Benyosef shook his long white beard. His weaving, he said, was all
custom work. He had nothing made up to sell. If his client wished to order a
coat, they would gladly make it for him, and it would be a good one. But as
for homespun, it might be found in the bazaars; or, better, in the country.
And with that laconic announcement, he deftly scooted a wooden shuttle
through the open warp and gave the thread a whack with the beam that made the
old loom shudder. It was apparent that so far as Benyosef was concerned the
interview had terminated.

Four other men had been mildly interested, also a dark, handsome boy of
twelve, who had stopped romping with a dog to listen. One of the men was a
young Greek with a refined face, seated at a ramshackle loom adjacent to
Benyosef's. Marcellus surmised that this might be Demetrius's friend
Stephanos.

Near the wall, behind the looms, sat two men who bore a marked
resemblance, one in his early thirties, the other considerably younger. They
were deeply tanned and simply dressed in country garb, their rustic,
well-worn sandals indicating that they were accustomed to long journeys on
foot. This pair, obviously brothers, might easily qualify as 'The Sons of
Thunder,' though the appellation did seem rather incongruous, for they
appeared benign enough, especially the younger whose expressive eyes had a
marked spiritual quality. He would have passed more reasonably as a mystic
than as an agitator.

The fourth man, who sat on the corner of an inverted tub, was probably
sixty. He, too, was an outlander, to judge by his homely dress and the
shagginess of his grey-streaked hair and beard. Bronzed and bushy, he seemed
out of place under a roof. During the brief colloquy, he had sat gently
stroking his beard with the back of his hand, his brown eyes drifting lazily
from old Benyosef to the eccentric Roman who, for some obscure reason, wanted
to purchase articles of homespun.

At first sight of him, Marcellus thought this might be the man Demetrius
had referred to as 'The Big Fisherman.' He was big enough. But another glance
at the reposeful posture and the amiable smile assured Marcellus that if 'The
Big Fisherman' was a man of energy and something of a party leader, the hairy
one who lounged on the tub must be someone else, conceivably Barsabas
Justus.

Now that the looms had gone into action again, Marcellus had begun to
doubt whether this was the time or place to introduce his question about the
possibility of finding a guide, but Benyosef had remarked that one might hope
to buy homespun in the country; so the query would be natural enough. As if
this were a fresh inspiration, Marcellus inquired, in his best Aramaic, and
addressing them all impartially, whether they knew of a man—well
acquainted in the northern provinces—who might be employed to accompany
him on a leisurely tour.

Benyosef, ceasing his racket, scowled thoughtfully, but made no movement.
The older brother shook his head. The younger calmly stared through and
beyond the inquirer as if he had not heard. The Greek, who might be
Stephanos, slowly turned about and faced the big man in the corner.

'How long do you want to stay?' rumbled Justus, after some
deliberation.

'Two weeks, perhaps, or three—or a month.' Marcellus tried not to
sound too urgent. 'Once I am up there, and have found my way about,' he
added, 'you could leave me—if you had other things to do.'

'When do you want to start?' inquired Justus, with a little more
interest.

'Soon as possible. How about the day after to-morrow?'

'The day after to-morrow,' put in Benyosef, reproachfully, 'is the Sabbath
of the Lord our God!'

'Sorry,' mumbled Marcellus. 'I had forgotten.'

'Don't you Romans ever observe a day of rest, young man?' demanded
Benyosef, enjoying his right to be querulous.

'The Romans rest oftener than we do,' drawled Justus, encouraged to this
audacity by the broad grin with which Marcellus had met the old man's
impertinence.

'But not oftener than YOU do!' growled Benyosef, darting his bright little
eyes at Justus.

This was good for a chuckle. Even the younger brother turned about and
smiled a little. As if to prove himself a man of action, Justus rose and led
the way to a wooden bench in front of the house. Marcellus, with a nod to the
others, followed. So did the boy, who sat beside them, hugging his knees.

With more resourcefulness than Marcellus had expected, Justus led the
conversation about necessary arrangements for the journey. They would need a
small string of pack-asses, he said, to carry camp equipment; for some of the
smaller villages offered very poor accommodation. Four asses would be
sufficient, he thought, to pack everything including whatever might be
purchased.

'Will you buy the asses for me, and the camping tackle?' asked Marcellus.
'Doubtless you could make better terms. How much money will it take?' He
unstrapped his wallet.

'You are trusting me to buy these things?' inquired Justus.

'Why not? You look honest.' Noting that this comment had brought a little
frown, he added, 'You would not be an acceptable visitor at old Benyosef's
shop if you were unscrupulous.'

Justus gave him a long sidewise look without turning his head.

'What do you know about old Benyosef—and his shop?' he queried
gruffly.

Marcellus shrugged.

'The place is of good repute,' he answered negligently. 'Benyosef has been
in business for a long time.'

'That means nothing,' retorted Justus. 'Plenty of rascals stay in business
for a long time.' And when Marcellus had agreed to that with a nod, and an
indifferent 'Doubtless,' Justus said: 'There will be no need to buy
pack-asses. You can hire them, and a boy to drive them. Hire the tent, too,
and everything else.'

'Will you see to it, then? Let us be on our way early on the first day of
the week.' Marcellus rose. 'How much will you expect for your services?'

'I am willing to leave that to you, sir,' said Justus. 'As you heard
Stephen say, I had intended going home in a few days to Sepphoris in Galilee.
This journey will not inconvenience me. I have nothing to do at present. My
time is of little value. You may provide me with food and shelter. And I
could do with a new pair of sandals.'

'Well—I mean to do better than that by you,' declared Marcellus.

'A new robe, then,' suggested Justus, holding up a frayed sleeve.

'With pleasure.' Marcellus lowered his tone and said, 'Pardon the
question, but—but'—he hesitated—'you are a Jew; are you
not?'

Justus chuckled and nodded, stroking his whiskers.

When they parted, a moment later, with a definite understanding to meet at
the Damascus Gate soon after sunrise on the next morning after the Sabbath,
Marcellus felt confident that the journey would be rewarding. Justus was a
friendly old fellow who would tell him everything he wanted to know. He was
just the type to enjoy reminiscence.

With his errand satisfactorily performed and nothing in particular to do,
Marcellus strolled back toward the busy, ill-flavoured marketplace, where he
idled past the booths and stalls, pausing to listen, with amusement and
disgust, to the violent rages of hucksters and shoppers over deals relating
to one small pickled fish or a calf's foot. Vituperations rent the air.
Unpleasant comments were made by customers reflecting on the merchants'
ancestry. Insults were screamed, and ignored, and forgotten, which, had they
been exchanged in a Roman barracks, would have demanded an immediate blood
atonement. At one booth, where he stopped to witness an almost incredible
scene involving the disputed price of a lamb kidney, Marcellus was surprised
to find, close beside him, the boy he had seen at Benyosef's shop.

Having had more than enough of the market-place, he decided to return to
his inn. It was a long tramp. Turning about, at the top of the steps leading
to the entrance, Marcellus looked down toward the city. The boy from
Benyosef's was sauntering down the street. It was more amusing than annoying
to have been followed. On second thoughts, these people were quite within
their rights to investigate him as far as they could. Perhaps they wanted to
know at what manner of place he was stopping. Had he been a guest at the
Insula, they would have had nothing further to do with him.

That evening, as he sat in the walled garden of the inn, after supper,
studying the ancient scroll that Benjamin had given him, Marcellus glanced up
to find Stephanos standing before him.

'May I speak with you privately?' asked Stephanos, in Greek.

They walked to the far end of the garden, and Marcellus signed to him to
sit down.

'You were surprised not to find Demetrius,' began Stephanos. 'About a
fortnight after he wrote to you, he had the misfortune to be recognized on
the street by the Tribune with whom he had had trouble in Athens. No effort
was made to apprehend him, but he believed that the Tribune might seek
revenge. In that case his friends at Benyosef's shop might be
involved—and we are in no position to defend ourselves.'

'Where did he go, Stephanos?' asked Marcellus, deeply concerned.

'I do not know, sir. He returned to our lodgings and awaited me. We sat up
and talked nearly all through the night. Several of our men were in a secret
meeting at Benyosef's shop. We joined them an hour before dawn. Demetrius,
having bade us farewell, slipped away before the sun rose. He will return
when it is safe; when the Tribune has left. You may leave a letter for him
with me, if you like, or send it later in my care—should you find a
messenger who can be trusted. He confided to me that you were coming and
asked me to explain his absence. None of the others were told.' Stephanos
lowered his voice, and continued, 'Demetrius also confided your reasons for
wanting to visit Galilee.'

'Just how much did he tell you?' Marcellus studied the Greek's face.

'Everything,' replied Stephanos, soberly. 'You see, sir, he wanted to make
sure that Justus would go along with you. He felt that I might be of some
service in arranging this. And when he began to explain the nature of your
interest in Jesus—with much hesitation, and many mysterious gaps in the
story—I urged him to make a clean breast of the whole business; and he
did. You can trust me to keep your secret.'

Marcellus had no rejoinder ready to meet this startling announcement. For
a time he sat quietly deliberating.

'Are they suspicious of me, at Benyosef's shop?' he asked, at length. 'I
was followed, this afternoon.'

'Young Philip is my nephew, sir,' explained Stephanos. 'I needed to know
where you were lodging. You need have no anxiety about Philip. He will not
talk. No one at the shop will learn of our meeting. I feared, for a moment,
this morning, that John might recognize you, but apparently he did not. He is
a dreamy fellow.'

'How could he have recognized me?' asked Marcellus.

'John was at the crucifixion, sir. Perhaps you may recall the young man
who tried to comfort Jesus' mother.'

'His mother. She was there? How dreadful!' Marcellus bowed his head and
dug his finger-tips into his temples.

'It was indeed, sir,' muttered Stephanos. 'I was there. I recognized you
instantly when you came into the shop, though of course I was expecting you.
I think you may feel sure that John did not remember.'

'You have been very kind, Stephanos. Is there any way in which I can serve
you?'

'Yes, sir.' The Greek lowered his voice to a whisper. 'Have you the
robe?'

Marcellus nodded.

'May I see it?' asked Stephanos.

'Yes,' said Marcellus. 'Come with me.'

* * * * *

They had been on the road for three days now, and the name of Jesus had
not been mentioned. For all his apparent ingenuousness, Justus was
surprisingly profound. His ready smile promised a childish capitulation to
your wishes. His deference to your status as a well-to-do young Roman was
graciously tendered. But your negligent prediction that Justus would be eager
to talk about Jesus had turned out to be incorrect. You were learning that
there were a few things which not even a wealthy, well-dressed Roman could
acquire either by cajolery, command, or purchase; and one of these things was
the story of Jesus.

It had never occurred to Marcellus that an occasion could arise when his
Roman citizenship might be an inconvenience. If you were a Roman and had
plenty of money, you could have what you wanted, anywhere in the world. Doors
and gates were swung open, bars and bridges were let down, tables were set
up, aliens climbed out of public vehicles to give you their seats, merchants
made everybody else stand aside while they attended to your caprices. If you
arrived late at the wharf, the boat waited. If there was only one commodious
cabin, the rich Jew surrendered it without debate. When you said Come, people
came; when you said Go, they went.

But if you had journeyed on foot into the impoverished little provinces
north of Jerusalem, ostensibly to purchase homespun, but actually to make
inquiries concerning a certain penniless carpenter who had moved about in
that region, your Roman citizenship was a nuisance and your money was of no
aid.

The project, as Marcellus had originally conceived it, had presented no
problems. Barsabas Justus, full of zeal for his new cause, would be bubbling
with information about his hero. Perhaps he might even have designs on you as
a possible convert. He would be eager to introduce you to the country people
who had often met this strange Galilean face to face. You would be shown into
their homes to see the outgivings of their household looms and, before you
had a chance to sit down, they would be reciting stories of enchanted words
and baffling deeds.

Well, it hadn't turned out that way. True, the country people had welcomed
you at their little wayside inns, had greeted you respectfully on the
highway, had shown you their fabrics, had politely answered your random
questions about their handicrafts; but they had had nothing to say about this
Jesus. They were courteous, hospitable, friendly; but you, who had often been
a stranger in strange places, had never felt quite so lonesome before. They
all shared a secret; but not with you. Justus would present you to a
household and tell them why you had come and they would make haste to bring
out the best specimens of their weaving. And presently, the father of the
family and Justus would exchange a covert glance of mutual understanding and
quietly drift out of the room. After a while, your hostess would excuse
herself, leaving you with auntie and the children; and you knew that she had
slipped away to join her husband and Justus.

The very air of this country was full of mystery. For instance, there was
this fish-emblem; figure of a fish, freshly cut into the bark of a sycamore,
scrawled with a stick into the sand by the roadside, chalked on a stone
fence, scratched into a bare table at a village inn. Demetrius had said it
was the accepted token of the new movement to practise the teachings of
Jesus.

On the second day out, Marcellus, hoping to make Justus talk, had asked
casually:

'What's all this—about fish?'

And Justus had replied:

'That's what we live on—up here—fish.'

Marcellus had been a little put out by this evasion. He resolved to ask no
more questions.

* * * * *

Marcellus, lounging against the fig tree, studied the tanned face of old
Justus, and wondered what he was thinking about; wondered, too, how long he
was likely to lie there gazing wide-eyed at the sky. Justus gave no sign that
he was aware of his client's restlessness.

After a while, Marcellus rose slowly to his feet and sauntered over toward
the pack-asses which the cloddish young driver—sound asleep under a
tree—had staked out to graze.

Noticing with indignation that the lead-donkey's bridle was buckled so
short that the unhappy creature's mouth had been torn by the bit and was
bleeding, he tugged the torturing harness off over the long ears; and,
sitting down on the grass, proceeded to lengthen the straps by punching new
holes with the point of his dagger. It was not an easy task, for the leather
was old and stiff; and before he had put the bridle together again, the
donkey-boy had roused and was watching him with dull curiosity.

'Come here, stupid one!' barked Marcellus. 'I shall not tolerate any
cruelty to these beasts.' He reached into his wallet and drew out a copper
coin. 'Go you to that house—or the next—or the next—and get
some ointment, and don't come back here without it!'

After the dolt had set off, shambling down the road, Marcellus rose,
carelessly patted the old donkey on the nose, and returned to find Justus
sitting up, smilingly interested.

'You like animals,' he observed, cordially.

'Yes,' said Marcellus, 'some animals. I can't say that I am particularly
fond of donkeys; but it irritates me when I see them mistreated. We will have
to keep an eye on that dunce!'

Justus nodded approvingly. Marcellus sat down beside him, aware that his
guide was studying him with the air of having made a new acquaintance.

'Do you like flowers?' asked Justus, irrelevantly, after a lengthy,
candid, and somewhat embarrassing inspection.

'Of course. Why not?'

'This country is full of wild flowers. It's the season for them. Later, it
is very dry, and they wither. They are especially abundant this year.' Justus
made a slow, sweeping gesture that covered the sloping hillside. 'Look, sir,
what a wide variety.'

Marcellus followed the tanned finger as the gentle voice identified the
blossoms with what seemed like confident knowledge; pink mustard, yellow
mustard, blue borage, white sage, rayed umbel, plantain, bugle-weed,
marigold, and three species of poppies.

'You must be an ardent lover of nature, Justus,' commented Marcellus.

'Only in the last couple of years, sir. I used to pass the flowers by
without seeing them, as almost every man does. Of course I recognized the
useful plants; flax and wheat, oats and barley and clover; but I never
thought much about flowers until I made the close acquaintance of a man who
knew all about them.'

Justus had again stretched out on the grass, and his tone had become so
dreamily reminiscent that Marcellus, listening with suspended breath,
wondered if—at last—the soft-voiced Galilean might be about to
speak of his lost friend.

'He knew all about flowers,' reiterated Justus, with a little shake of his
head, as if the recollection were inexpressibly precious. Marcellus thought
of asking whether his friend had died or left the country, seeing that
Justus's reference to him sounded as if it belonged to the past; but decided
not to be too intrusive with his questions.

'You would have thought,' Justus was saying, half to himself, 'that the
flowers were friends of his, the way he talked about them. One day he bade
some of us, who were walking with him, to stop and observe a field of wild
lilies. "See how richly they are clad!" he said. "They do no work. They do
not spin. Yet even King Solomon did not have such raiment."'

'A lover of beauty,' commented Marcellus. 'But probably not a very
practical fellow. Did he not believe in labour?'

'Oh, yes, he believed that people should be industrious,' Justus had been
quick to declare, 'but he held that most of them spent too much time and
thought on their bodies; on clothing—and food—and
hoarding—and bigger barns—and the accumulation of things.'

'Sounds as if he wasn't very thrifty.' Marcellus grinned as he said it, so
it wouldn't seem a contemptuous criticism; but Justus, staring at the sky,
did not see the smile, and the comment brought a frown.

'He was not indolent,' said Justus, firmly. 'He could have had things, if
he'd wanted them. He was a carpenter by occupation—and a skilful one
too. It was a pleasure to see him handle keen-edged tools. When he mortised
timbers they looked as if they had grown that way. There was always a
fair-sized crowd about the shop, watching him work; children all over the
place. He had a way with children—and animals—and birds.' Justus
laughed softly, and exhaled a nostalgic sigh. 'Yes—he had a way with
him. When he would leave the shop to go home, there was always a lot of
children with him—and dogs. Everything belonged to him; but he never
owned anything. He often said that he pitied people who toiled and schemed
and worried and cheated to possess a lot of things; and then had to stand
guard over them to see that they weren't stolen or destroyed by moths and
rust.'

'Must have been an eccentric person,' mused Marcellus, 'not to want
anything for his own.'

'But he never thought he was poor!' Justus raised up on one elbow,
suddenly animated. 'He had the spirit of truth. Not many people can afford
that, you know.'

'What an odd thing to say!' Marcellus had stared into Justus's eyes, until
the older man grinned a little.

'Not so odd, when you stop to think about it. A talent for truth is worth
having. If a man loves truth better than things, people are glad to have him
for a friend. Almost everybody wishes he could be honest, but you can't have
the spirit of truth when your heart is set on dickering for THINGS. That's
why people hung about this carpenter and listened to everything he said; he
had the spirit of truth. Nobody had to be on guard with him; didn't have to
pretend; didn't have to lie. It made them happy and free as little
children.'

'Did everybody respond to him—that way?' asked Marcellus,
seriously.

'Almost everybody,' nodded Justus. 'Oh—sometimes people who didn't
know him tried to deceive him about themselves, but'—he grinned broadly
as if remembering an occasion—'but, you see, sir, he was so perfected
in the truth that you couldn't lie to him, or pretend to be what you weren't.
It simply couldn't be done, sir; either by word, tone, or manner! And as soon
as people found that out, they dropped their weapons and defences, and began
to speak the truth, themselves! It was a new experience for some of them, and
it gave them a sensation of freedom. That's why they liked him, sir. They
couldn't lie to him, and so they told the truth—and—and the truth
set them free!'

'That's a new thought!' declared Marcellus. 'Your friend must have been a
philosopher, Justus. Was he a student of the classics?'

Justus was briefly puzzled, and presently shook his head.

'I do not think so,' he replied. 'He just—KNEW!'

'I don't suppose he had very many admirers among the well-to-do,' ventured
Marcellus, 'if he discouraged the accumulation of property.'

'You would have been surprised, sir!' declared Justus. 'Plenty of rich men
listened. I recall that once a wealthy young nobleman followed him about for
a whole afternoon; and before he left he came up closer and said, "How can I
get that—what you have?"'

Justus paused so long and the look in his eyes grew so remote that
Marcellus wondered whether he had drifted off to thinking about something
else.

'And then—what did your carpenter say?'

'Told him he was too heavily weighted with THINGS,' replied Justus. '"Give
your things away," he said, "and come along with me."'

'Did he?'

'No, but he said he wished he could. He went away quite depressed, and we
were all sorry, for he was indeed a fine young fellow.' Justus shook his
head, and smiled pensively. 'I suppose that was the first time he had ever
really wanted something that he couldn't afford.'

'This carpenter must have been a very unusual man,' remarked Marcellus.
'He appears to have had the mind of a dreamer, a poet, an artist. Did he
draw, perhaps—or carve?'

'Jews do not draw—or carve.'

'Indeed? How then do they express themselves?'

'They sing,' replied Justus, 'and tell stories.'

'What manner of stories?'

'Oh, the legends of our people, mostly; the deeds of our great ones. Even
the little children can recite the traditions and the prophecies.' Justus
smiled benevolently, and seemed about to confide an incident. 'I have a
grandson, sir. His name is Jonathan. We called him Jonathan because he was
born with a crooked foot, like Jonathan of old—the son of King Saul.
Our Jonathan is seven. You should hear him tell the story of the Creation,
and the Great Flood, and the Exodus.'

'The Exodus?' Marcellus searched his memory.

'You do not know, sir?' Justus was tolerant but surprised.

'I know what the word means,' said Marcellus, defensively. 'Exodus is a
going-away, or a road out; but I do not recall a story about it.'

'I thought everyone knew the history of our people's escape from bondage
in Egypt,' said Justus.

'Oh—that!' recalled Marcellus. 'I didn't know that was an escape.
Our history teachers insist that the Jews were expelled from Egypt.'

'Well, no matter,' said Marcellus. 'There's nothing we can do about it
now. I'll accept your version of the story, if you want to tell me.'

'Little Jonathan will recite it for you when we visit Sepphoris. He is a
bright boy.' Justus's sudden anger had cooled.

'It is easy to see you are fond of him, Justus.'

'Yes—little Jonathan is all we have. My wife entered into her rest
many years ago. My daughter Rebecca is a widow. Jonathan is a great comfort
to us. Perhaps you know how it is, sir, in a home where a child is sick or
crippled. He gets a little more care; a little more love, maybe, to make up
for it. Jonathan still gets it, though he is perfectly well now.'

'Well?' queried Marcellus. 'His foot, you mean?'

Justus nodded slowly, turning his face away.

'Is that not unusual?' persisted Marcellus.

The crow's-feet on Justus's temple deepened and his face was sober as he
nodded again without looking up. It was plain now that he did not wish to be
questioned further. Presently he tugged himself loose from his meditative
mood, returned with a smile, stretched his long, bronzed arms, and rose to
his feet.

'It is time we moved on, sir,' he declared, 'if we expect to reach Sychar
by sunset. The town does not possess a good inn. We will make camp this side,
near Jacob's well. Ever hear of Jacob, sir?' He grinned, good-humouredly.

'I believe not, Justus,' confessed Marcellus. 'Is it such a good
well?'

'No better than plenty of other wells, but a landmark; fifteen centuries
old.'

They were on the highway again. The lout with the browsing donkeys had
dragged his stubborn caravan out of the weeds. Justus turned about; and,
shielding his eyes with his cupped hands, gazed intently down the road over
which they had come. Marcellus's curiosity was rekindled. It was not the
first time that Justus had stopped to look backwards. And whenever they had
come to a crossing, he had paused to look carefully in all directions. He did
not seem to be apprehensive of danger. It was rather as if he had made an
appointment to meet someone up here. Marcellus was on the point of asking if
that were true, but discreetly decided it was none of his business.

For more than three hours they plodded along the dusty highway, not
meeting many travellers, nor making much conversation. It was late afternoon.
A half-mile ahead, a cluster of sycamores was sighted and a few scattered
dwellings.

'There are the outskirts of Sychar,' said Justus, lengthening his
stride.

In a little while they reached the little suburb, a sleepy, shabby
community of whitewashed, flat-roofed houses. In its centre, by the roadside,
was the historic well. Two women were walking away with water-jars on their
shoulders. A third was arriving. Justus's steps lagged to give her time to
draw up the huge bucket and fill her jar. She glanced apathetically in their
direction, put down her jar, stared; and then proceeded vigorously with her
task. Hurriedly filling the jar, and spilling much water about her feet, she
shouldered her burden and made off toward one of the small houses.

'Have we alarmed her?' asked Marcellus, grinning. 'I had not thought we
looked so fierce.'

'She is not frightened,' said Justus soberly.

It was a large well. The ancient stonework around it was of the height of
a sheep, and broad enough to be sat upon comfortably. Justus, who had
suddenly become preoccupied, sank wearily on to the ledge with his back
toward the small group of dwellings. After standing about for some moments,
wondering how long they were to linger here, Marcellus sat down on the
opposite side to wait until Justus was ready to move on. His eyes idly
followed the rapidly retreating figure of the woman until she entered one of
the houses.

Almost immediately she reappeared without her water-jar and ran across the
highway to a neighbour; entered, and came out in a moment accompanied by
another younger and more attractive woman. They stood for a while looking
toward the well; then advanced slowly, stopping frequently to parley, their
faces full of perplexity.

'That woman is coming back, Justus, and bringing another along, and they
are not coming for water,' observed Marcellus.

Justus roused with a little jerk and turned his head. Then he rose and
walked toward the women, who came quickly to meet him. They held a brief,
low-voiced conversation, Justus solemnly shaking his head. The younger woman,
her eyes—very pretty eyes, too—wide with curiosity, continued to
press her questions, and Justus shook his head, as if saying,
No—no—no. Finally he tipped his head slightly in Marcellus's
direction, and the women's eyes instantaneously followed the gesture. Justus
was cautioning them not to pursue the matter, whatever it was.

Then the older woman left them and began slowly retracing her steps toward
her house; and Justus, frowning heavily and nodding what seemed to be a
reluctant consent, turned back toward the well. Yes, he would try to talk
with her again, his manner plainly said. He would talk with her again, as
soon as he could do so without arousing the curiosity of this Roman.

After Justus had unpacked their camping equipment and put up the
sleeping-tent under some sycamores, he had mumbled something about having to
go back to the village for bread, though Marcellus knew they had enough for
their supper and suspected that his more urgent errand was to talk with that
woman again; for his manner had made it plain that he wished to go alone.

Wearied by the long day's tramp and annoyed by his guide's secretiveness,
he flung himself down on the rug that Justus had spread in front of the tent
and moodily watched the sun going down over the tree-tops and house-roofs of
the village.

Why did Justus want to have a private interview with this woman? What did
they have to talk about? Something quite serious, apparently. Perhaps they
would discuss this mystery. But why should there be a mystery? The Galilean
was dead. Who was going to persecute these people for what the carpenter had
said or done; or for their tender remembrance of him?

Marcellus was offended. Surely Justus had no reason to think that he had
come up into this poverty-stricken land to harass the simple-hearted
country-folk. There was no occasion for this fellow to treat him as if he
were an ordinary eavesdropper!

Well, if Justus did not trust him, it was conceivable that he might
secretly go through his belongings, looking for some evidence. If he did
so—he would get a stunning surprise! There was one article of Galilean
homespun, at the bottom of his gunny-bag, that Justus must not see!

It was well on toward sunset when they sighted Cana, after a
fatiguing tramp from the village of Nain where Justus's insistence on
observing the Sabbath had kept them off the road for a day—one of the
most tedious and profitless days that Marcellus had ever experienced.

Justus had gone to the little synagogue in the morning. Had he been
invited, Marcellus would have accompanied him, so hard up was he for
diversion in an unkempt town where there was nothing of interest to see or
do. But Justus had set off alone, after assuring Marcellus that there were
ample provisions for his noonday meal.

About the middle of what threatened to be an interminable afternoon,
Marcellus, lounging on the ground in front of the tent, observed Justus
returning in the company of an elderly woman and a tall sober-faced young
man. They walked slowly, preoccupied with serious conversation. When within a
stadium of the camp, they came to a stop and continued their earnest talk for
a long time. Then the woman and the young man who, Marcellus surmised, might
have been her son, reluctantly turned back toward the village, arm in arm,
while Justus came on wearing a studious frown.

Marcellus knew it was childish to feel any resentment over the quite
obvious disinclination of Justus to acquaint him with his local friends. When
there was trading in prospect, Justus was promptly polite with his
introductions, but he was making it plain that their relationship was
strictly on a business basis.

It wasn't that Marcellus had any considerable interest in meeting this
grey-haired woman, or the thoughtful young man on whose arm she leaned
affectionately; but he couldn't help feeling a bit chagrined over the
snubbing. Of course, in all fairness to Justus, he reflected, the fellow had
contracted only to take him into households where homespun might be
purchased. He had not promised to introduce the young Roman merchant as his
friend. Nor could Justus be expected to know—nor might he be permitted
to suspect—that his patron had no interest whatsoever in this
merchandising, but wanted only to meet and talk with persons who had known
Jesus.

Returning to the tent, with an absent nod toward his idle client, Justus
had sat silently staring at the distant hills. Occasionally Marcellus stole a
glance in his direction, but he was completely oblivious. It could not be
divined whether this retreat into silence was of a piece with Sabbath
observance or whether some new reason accounted for his taciturnity.

Early the next morning, Justus had been suddenly animated with a desire to
be on the highway. Breakfast was dispatched at top speed. The pack-asses and
their socially inferior custodian were advised that there would be no
nonsense on this day's journey. The sun was hot, but the determined guide led
the little caravan with long, swinging strides. Marcellus was mightily
relieved when, at high noon, Justus turned off the road and pointed to a
near-by clump of olives.

'Shall we rest now, and eat?' he inquired.

'By all means!' panted Marcellus, mopping his brow. 'Is this Cana such an
interesting city, then, that we must walk our legs off to get there
to-day?'

'I am sorry to have pressed you,' said Justus. 'I did not explain, because
I wanted to give you a pleasant surprise at the end of the day. There is a
young woman in Cana who sings every evening in the park.'

'Indeed!' muttered Marcellus, wearily. 'Well—she'd better be
good!'

'She is good.' Justus began unpacking their lunch. 'The people of Cana
have their supper early; and afterwards a great many of them—both young
and old—assemble about the fountain where this crippled girl sings the
songs that our people love. Her family and the neighbours carry her there on
her cot, and the people sit down and listen until dark.'

'Extraordinary!' commented Marcellus, rubbing his lame muscles. 'You say
she's a cripple? I shall want to meet her. At the rate we're travelling, by
the end of the day she and I may have a common cause.'

Justus acknowledged the raillery with a grin, broke a wheaten loaf, gave
half of it to Marcellus, and seated himself on the grass.

'Miriam is a beautiful young woman,' he went on, munching his bread
hungrily. 'She is about twenty-two now. Some seven years ago she was suddenly
stricken with paralysis. That would have been a great misfortune in any case,
but for Miriam it was a calamity. She had been very active in games, and a
leader in the children's sports. Now she was unable to walk. Moreover, she
added to her unhappiness by resenting her affliction, spending her days in
such pitiful lamentations that her parents were beside themselves with grief,
and their house was in mourning.'

'I take it that you knew them well,' contributed Marcellus, mildly
interested.

'Not at that time,' admitted Justus, 'but the day came when that part of
Miriam's story was quite widely discussed. For three years she lay on her
bed, inconsolable, peevish, so embittered by her trouble that she rejected
all the kindly efforts made to divert her mind. As time passed, she refused
to admit her friends into her room; and sat alone, sullen and smouldering
with rebellion.'

'And now she sings? What happened?'

'Now she sings,' nodded Justus; adding, after a meditative moment, 'I do
not know the particulars, sir. I am not sure that anyone does. Miriam refuses
to discuss it. Her parents profess not to know. When people have inquired of
them, they have replied, "Ask Miriam."'

'Perhaps they are telling the truth when they say they do not know.'
Marcellus was becoming concerned. 'Surely they could have no motive for
refusing to explain the improvement in their daughter's disposition.'

Justus had nodded, without comment.

'Maybe Miriam herself doesn't know,' speculated Marcellus, hopeful that
the story had not come to an end. 'Maybe Miriam found that she had finally
exhausted her resentment, and might as well make the best of it.' He paused
to give Justus a chance to contradict this inexpert opinion; and, meeting no
rejoinder, ventured another guess. 'Maybe she woke up one morning and said to
herself, "I've been making everybody miserable. I'm going to pretend that I'm
happy. I'll be cheerful—and sing!" Maybe she just reached that
decision, after proving that the other course was futile.'

'Maybe,' murmured Justus, remotely.

'But you don't think so,' declared Marcellus, after a long interval of
silence.

'I don't know.' Justus shook his head decisively. 'One of her girl
friends, whom she hadn't seen for a couple of years, was to be married. They
had urgently pleaded with Miriam to attend the wedding, but she would not go;
and all that day she wept bitterly. But, that evening, when her parents
returned from the wedding-feast, she met them with gladness, and sang!'

'Amazing!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'And she has a voice—really?'

'You may decide that for yourself, sir, when you hear her,' said Justus.
'And you may meet her in her home to-morrow. Naomi, her mother, does
beautiful weaving. I shall take you there. She may have some things that
might interest you. If you are rested now, sir, shall we be on our way?'

* * * * *

They pitched their tent at the edge of little Cana, ate their supper
quickly, and walked to the centre of the village, overtaking many people
going in the same direction. Already fifty or more were seated on the ground
in semi-circular rows facing a natural fountain that gently welled up into
the huge brick basin.

'I suppose this is Cana's drinking water,' said Marcellus, as they moved
toward an unoccupied spot on the lawn.

'It is warm water,' said Justus. 'Hot springs abound in this region.' They
seated themselves cross-legged on the ground.

'Is it thought to be a healing water?' asked Marcellus.

'Yes, but not by the people of Galilee. Travellers come from afar to bathe
in the water from these springs.'

'Oh? Then Cana sees many strangers.'

'Not so many in Cana. They go mostly to Tiberias, on the Lake Gennesaret.
It is a more important city, and possesses much wealth. It is only the rich
who come to bathe in medicinal waters.'

'And why is that?' inquired Marcellus. 'Do not the poor believe in the
virtue of these hot springs?'

Justus laughed. It was a deep, spontaneous laugh that he seemed to enjoy;
an infectious laugh that evoked companionable chuckles in their vicinity,
where many men and women had recognized the big gentle-voiced neighbour from
Sepphoris. Marcellus was discovering something new and interesting about
Justus. He was naturally full of fun. You wouldn't have suspected it. He had
been so serious; so weighted.

'The poor do not have the diseases, sir, that these springs are supposed
to cure,' explained Justus. 'Only men accustomed to rich foods and an
abundance of fine wines seek these healing waters. The Galileans do not
suffer of ills arising from such causes.'

It was delicious irony, because so free of any bitterness. Marcellus
admired the tone of the appreciative laughter that came from their candidly
eavesdropping neighbours. His heart warmed toward them. He was going to feel
at home with them.

'That's a new thought, Justus,' he replied, 'and a sound one. I never
considered it before, but it is a fact that hot springs are intended for
gluttons and winebibbers. Now that you speak of it, I recall having heard
something about this city of Tiberias on Lake Gennesaret.'

'Often called the Sea of Galilee,' nodded Justus, 'but not by the
Galileans.' The crowd seated about them had grown attentive, tilting its head
at a favourable angle, frankly interested.

'Big lake?' wondered Marcellus.

'Big enough to be stormy. They have some rough gales.'

'Any fishing?'

Justus nodded indifferently, and a middle-aged man sitting in front of
them turned his head, plainly wanting to say something. Marcellus caught his
dancing eye, and raised his brows encouragingly.

'That's one of the diseases that poor people can afford, sir,' remarked
the man, 'fishing!' Everybody laughed merrily at that.

'Do they catch any fish?' inquired Marcellus.

'Yes,' admitted Justus, 'they have caught fish—all of them—a
long time ago.' This sally was good, too; and the friendly hilarity increased
the circle of listeners. Marcellus felt that they were showing quite an
amiable attitude toward him; perhaps because he was sponsored by Justus who,
it seemed, everyone knew; and, besides, Marcellus was doing fairly well with
his Aramaic.

'But they still fish?' he inquired, artlessly.

A shrill childish voice unexpectedly broke in, from up the row a little
way.

'Once they caught a great lot of them!' shouted the lad.

'Sh-sh!' came a soft, concerted caution from his kin.

All eyes were now turning toward the fountain where a cot was being borne
in from the street. The girl seated on it was propped about with pillows. In
her bare, shapely arms she hugged a small harp.

The sculptor in Marcellus instantly responded. It was a finely modelled,
oval face, white with a pallor denoting much pain endured; but the wide-set,
long-lashed eyes had not been hurt. Her abundant hair, parted in the middle,
framed an intelligent brow. Her full lips were almost gay as she surveyed the
crowd.

Two men followed, carrying wooden trestles, and the cot was lifted up
until everyone could see. A deep hush fell upon the people. Marcellus was
much impressed by the unusual scene, and found himself wishing that the girl
wouldn't try to sing. The picture was perfect. It was imprudent to risk
spoiling it.

Miriam gently swept the strings of her harp with slim, white fingers. Then
her face seemed to be transfigured. Its momentary gaiety had faded, and there
had come an expression of deep yearning. It was clear that she had left them
now, and was putting out on an enchanted excursion. The luminous eyes looked
upward, wide with far vision. Again she lightly touched the harp-strings.

The voice was a surprisingly deep, resonant contralto. That first tone,
barely audible at its beginning, swelled steadily until it began to take on
the pulsing vibration of a bell. Marcellus felt a quick tightening of his
throat, a sudden suffusion of emotion that burned and dimmed his eyes. Now
the song took wings!

All around Marcellus heads had bent to meet upraised hands; and stifled
sobs, with childish little catches of breath in them, were straining to be
quiet. As for himself, he sat staring at the entranced girl through
uncontrollable tears. He shook them out of his eyes, and stared!

'And he hath put a new song in my mouth!' exulted Miriam.

Justus slowly turned his head towards Marcellus. His seamed face was
contorted and his eyes were swimming. Marcellus touched his sleeve and nodded
soberly. Their gaze returned to the enraptured girl.

'Then I said, "Lo—I come." In the volume of the Book it is written
of me, "I delight to do Thy will, O God—and Thy law is in my
heart!"'

The song was ended and the close-packed crowd uttered a deep sigh.
Neighbours slowly turned their faces toward their best beloved, smiled
wistfully with half-closed eyes, and shook their heads, lacking words to tell
how deeply they had been moved. After an interval Miriam found her wings
again. Marcellus was thrilled by the phrases of her triumphant song, which
stirred in his heart instinctive longings hitherto unrealized. The song was
coming to an end now, even as the last rays of sunset filled the sky.

'To give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,'
sang Miriam, 'and to guide our feet in the way of peace.'

Twilight was falling. The men bore Miriam away. The crowd silently
scattered and took to the highway. It pleased Marcellus that Justus, trudging
by his side in the darkness, did not ask him if he liked Miriam's voice, or
whether he had not been impressed by the unusual occasion.

* * * * *

The home of Reuben and Naomi, at the northern extremity of the village,
was more commodious and occupied a larger parcel of ground than most of the
residences in Cana. The white-walled house, well back from the road, was
shaded by tall sycamores. In the spacious front yard were many fruit trees,
now gay and fragrant with blossoms; and on either side of this area there was
an apparently prosperous vineyard.

It was with some difficulty that Marcellus had curbed his impatience to
visit this home where he hoped to meet the crippled girl with the radiant
face and the golden voice. Justus had seemed wilfully tedious at the two
places where they had called on their way; and had it not been imprudent,
Marcellus would have dispatched these small transactions by purchasing
whatever was offered.

'Let us first speak to Miriam,' said Justus, unlatching the gate. 'I see
her sitting in the arbour.'

They crossed the neatly clipped grass-plot and sauntered toward the shaded
arbour where Miriam sat alone. She wore a white himation trimmed with coral
at the throat and flowing sleeves, but no jewellery except a slim silver
chain about her neck with a tiny pendant—a fish—carved from a
seashell. On the table beside her cot was the harp and a small case of
scrolls. Her curly head was bent attentively over the lace medallion she was
knitting. As they approached, she glanced up, recognizing Justus, and smiled
a welcome.

'Oh—you needn't explain, Barsabas Justus,' she said when, after
presenting Marcellus, he had added that the young man was interested in
Galilean fabrics. 'Everybody in Cana knows about it.' She smiled into
Marcellus's eyes. 'We are all excited, sir, over your visit, for it isn't
often that anyone comes here to trade.'

There was a peculiar tone-quality in her low voice that Marcellus could
not define, except that its warmth was entirely unself-conscious and sincere.
Frequently he had observed, upon being introduced to young women, that they
had a tendency to show a sudden liveliness, pitching their blithe remarks in
a shrill key as if from a considerable distance. Miriam's voice was as
unaffected and undefended as her smile.

'Naomi is at home?' asked Justus.

'In the house. Will you find her? I think she and Father are expecting
you.'

Justus turned away, and Marcellus was uncertain whether to follow. Miriam
helped him to a gratifying decision by pointing to a chair.

'I heard you sing,' he said. 'It was the most—' He paused to grope
for an appropriate word.

'How do you happen to speak Aramaic?' she interposed gently.

'I don't speak it very well,' said Marcellus. 'However,' he went on more
confidently, 'even your own countrymen might find it difficult to describe
your singing. I was deeply moved by it.'

'I am glad you wanted to tell me that.' Miriam pushed aside the pillow on
which the lace medallion had been pinned, and faced him with candid eyes. 'I
wondered a little what you might think. I saw you there with Justus. I had
never sung for a Roman. It would not have surprised me if you had been
amused; but it would have hurt me.'

'I'm afraid we have a bad reputation in these provinces,' sighed
Marcellus.

'Of course,' said Miriam. 'The only Romans we see in Cana are legionaries,
marching down the street, so haughtily, so defiantly'—she straightened
and swaggered her pretty shoulders, accenting her militant pantomime with
little jerks of her head—'as if they were saying—'

She paused and added, apologetically, 'But perhaps I should not tell
you.'

'Oh, I know what we always seem to say when we strut,' assisted Marcellus.
He protruded his lips with an exaggerated show of arrogance, and carried on
with Miriam's march: '"Here—we come—your
lords—and—masters!"'

They both laughed a little, and Miriam resumed her needlework. Bending
over it attentively, she inquired:

'Are there many Romans like you, Marcellus Gallio?'

'Multitudes! I make no claim to any sort of uniqueness.'

'I never talked with a Roman before,' said Miriam. 'But I supposed they
were all alike. They look alike.'

'In their uniforms, yes; but under their spiked helmets and shields, they
are ordinary creatures with no relish for tramping the streets of foreign
cities. They would much prefer to be at home with their families, hoeing in
their gardens and tending their goats.'

'I am glad to know that,' said Miriam. 'It is so unpleasant to dislike
people—and so hard not to think badly of the Romans. Now I shall say
that great numbers of them wish they were at home with their gardens and
goats; and I shall hope,' she went on, with a slow smile, 'that their desire
may be fulfilled. Have you a garden, sir?'

'Yes, we have a garden.'

'But no goats, I think.'

'There is no room for them. We live in the city.'

'Have you horses?'

'Yes.'

'In Galilee,' said Miriam, 'horses require more room than goats. Would you
like to tell me about your home?'

'Gladly. Our family consists of our parents and my sister Lucia and
myself.'

'Does your father take care of the garden while you are abroad?'

'Well—not personally—no,' replied Marcellus, after a little
hesitation; and when she glanced up from under her long lashes with an
elder-sisterly grin, he asked, 'Are you having a good time?'

She nodded companionably.

'I might have known that you kept a gardener,' she said, 'and a
maidservant too, no doubt.'

'Yes,' assented Marcellus, casually.

'Are they—slaves?' asked Miriam, in a tone that hoped not to give
offence.

'Yes,' admitted Marcellus, uncomfortably, 'but I can assure you they are
not mistreated.'

'I believe that,' she said, softly. 'You couldn't be cruel to anyone. How
many slaves have you?'

'I never counted them. A dozen, perhaps. No—there must be more than
that. Twenty, maybe.'

'It must seem odd to own other human beings,' reflected Miriam. 'Do you
keep them locked up, when they are not working?'

'By no means!' Marcellus dismissed the query with a toss of his hand.
'They are free to go anywhere they please.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Miriam. 'Don't they ever run away?'

'Not often. There's nowhere for them to go.'

'That's too bad,' Miriam sighed. 'They'd be better off in chains, wouldn't
they? Then maybe they could break loose. As it is, the whole world is their
prison.'

'I never thought about it before,' pondered Marcellus. 'But I suppose the
whole world is a prison for everyone. Is anybody entirely free? What
constitutes freedom?'

'The truth!' answered Miriam, quickly. 'The truth sets anyone free! If it
weren't so, I might feel quite fettered myself, Marcellus Gallio. My country
is owned by a foreign master. And, because of my lameness, I may seem to have
very little liberty; but my spirit is free!'

'You are fortunate,' said Marcellus. 'I should give a great deal to
experience a liberty independent of all physical conditions. Did you work out
that philosophy for yourself? Was it a product of your illness, perhaps?'

'No, no!' She shook her head decisively. 'My illness made a wretched slave
of me. I did not earn my freedom. It was a gift.'

Marcellus kept silent, when she paused. Perhaps she would explain.
Suddenly her face lighted, and she turned toward him with an altered
mood.

'Please forgive me for being inquisitive about you,' she said. 'I sit here
all day with nothing new happening. It is refreshing to talk with someone
from the outside world. Tell me about your sister Lucia. Is she younger than
you?'

'He was telling me, before we arrived in Cana, about your singing. He said
that you never knew you could sing until, one day, you found that you had a
voice—and sang. Justus said it came all unexpectedly. How do you
account for it—if it isn't a secret?'

'It is a secret,' she said, softly.

They were coming around the corner of the house now—Naomi first,
with her arms full of robes and shawls, followed by Justus and Reuben.
Marcellus rose and was introduced. Reuben rather diffidently took the hand
that Marcellus offered him. Naomi, apparently pleased by their guest's
attitude, smiled cordially. It was easy to see the close resemblance of
mother and daughter. Naomi had the same dimples in her cheeks.

'We have always gone to Jerusalem to attend the Passover at this season,'
she said, spreading out her wares across the back of a chair. 'This year we
shall not go. That is why I happen to have so many things on hand.'

Marcellus assumed his best business manner. Taking up a brown robe, he
examined it with professional interest.

'This,' he said, expertly, 'is typically Galilean. A seamless robe. And
excellent workmanship. Evidently you have had much practice in weaving this
garment.'

Naomi's gratified expression encouraged him to speak freely. He felt he
was making a good case for himself as a connoisseur of homespun, and could
risk an elaboration of his knowledge, particularly for Justus's
information.

'A weaver of my acquaintance in Athens,' he went on, 'told me something
about this robe. He was formerly of Samaria, I believe, and was quite
familiar with Galilean products.' He glanced toward Justus, and met an
inquisitive stare, as if he were searching his memory for some related fact.
Now his eyes lighted a little.

'There was a young Greek working for Benyosef, a short time ago,' remarked
Justus. 'I heard him say he had been with a weaver in Athens named Benjamin,
from whom he had learned to speak Aramaic. Might this have been the same
weaver?'

'Why—yes!' Marcellus tried to enjoy the coincidence. 'Benjamin is
well respected in Athens. He is a good scholar, too.' He chuckled a little.
'Benjamin always insists on speaking Aramaic with anyone whom he suspects of
knowing the language.'

'He must have found you pleasant company, sir,' remarked Justus. 'I have
noticed that you use many terms which are colloquial with the
Samaritans.'

'Indeed!' said Marcellus, taking up a shawl, and returning his attention
to Naomi. 'This is excellent wool,' he assured her. 'Is it grown here in
Galilee?'

'In our own madbra,' replied Reuben, proudly.

'Madbra!' repeated Marcellus. 'In the desert?'

Justus laughed.

'See, Reuben?' he exclaimed. 'When the Samaritans say "madbra," they mean
barren land.' He turned to Marcellus. 'When we say "madbra," we mean pasture.
"Bara" is our word for desert.'

'Thanks, Justus,' said Marcellus. 'I'm learning something.' He dismissed
this small episode by concentrating on the shawl. 'It is beautifully dyed,'
he said.

'With our own mulberries,' boasted Naomi.

'Had I known you were acquainted with Benjamin,' persisted Justus, 'I
should have told you about this young Greek, Demetrius; a most thoughtful
fellow. He left suddenly, one day. He had been in some trouble—and was
a fugitive.'

Marcellus politely raised his brows, but made it clear enough, by his
manner, that they had other things to talk about.

'I shall want the shawl,' he said, 'and this robe. Now—let us see
what else.' He began fumbling with the garments, hoping he had not seemed
abrupt in disregarding the comments about Demetrius.

Naomi obligingly moved away, and Marcellus continued to inspect the
textiles with exaggerated concern.

'Marcellus.' Miriam's tone was confidential.

He glanced up and met her level eyes inquiringly.

'Why did you lie to Justus?' she insisted, just above a whisper.

'Lie to him?' parried Marcellus, flushing.

'About that Greek. You did not want to talk about him. Perhaps you know
him. Tell me, Marcellus. What are you? You're not a merchant. I know that.
You have no real interest in my mother's weaving.' Miriam waited for a reply,
but Marcellus had not recovered his self-possession. 'Tell me,' she coaxed,
softly. 'What are you doing up here—in Galilee—if it isn't a
secret?'

Justus was coolly polite to-day, but remote. He was
beginning to be sceptical about Marcellus. Yesterday at Reuben's house a few
facts, unimportant when considered singly, had taken on size once they were
strung together.

Marcellus, whose Aramaic was distinctly of the Samaritan variety, had
recklessly volunteered that he knew old Benjamin, the weaver in Athens, who
had derived from Samaria.

Demetrius, the handsome young Greek who had recently been in Benyosef's
employ, also knew old Benjamin; had worked for him; and the Aramaic he spoke
was loaded with Samaritan provincialisms. Clearly there was some sort of
relation between Marcellus and this fugitive slave, though the Roman had
pretended not to have known him, and had shown no interest in the story of
his hasty flight from Benyosef's shop. Doubtless Marcellus knew about it, and
had reasons for wanting to evade any discussion of it. It all went to prove
that you couldn't trust a Roman.

At sunset yesterday, Justus had strolled down the street by himself,
making it clear that his Roman patron's company was not desired. For a little
while Marcellus had debated the propriety of going alone to the fountain. His
anxiety to hear Miriam sing again decided the matter.

The whole town was there and seated when he quietly joined the crowd at
its shaded outskirts. No notice was taken of him, for Miriam had at that
moment arrived and all eyes were occupied. Marcellus sat on the ground, a
little way apart, and experienced the same surge of emotion that had swept
through him on the previous evening. Now that he had talked with her,
Miriam's songs meant even more. He had been strangely drawn to this girl. And
he knew that she had been sincerely interested in him. It was not, in either
case, a mere transient infatuation. There had been nothing coyly provocative
in Miriam's attitude. She wanted only to be his friend, and had paid him the
high compliment of assuming that he was bright enough to understand the
nature of her unreserved cordiality.

As he sat there in the darkness, alternately stilled and stirred by her
deep, vibrant, confident tones, he found himself consenting to the reality of
her honest faith. His inherent, built-in scepticism yielded to a curious
wistfulness as she sang, 'In the shadow of thy wings will I make my
refuge.... My heart is fixed.... Awake, my glory! Awake, my harp!' Miriam
couldn't walk—but she could fly.

Justus had briefly announced that they would be leaving early in the
morning for his home town, Sepphoris, where he must attend to some
errands.

'Will we be coming back through Cana?' Marcellus had asked.

'If it is your wish, yes,' Justus had replied, 'but we have seen everyone
here who has weaving for sale.'

There wasn't much to be said after that. Marcellus could think of no
reasonable excuse for a return to Cana. He couldn't say, 'I must have another
private talk with Miriam.' No—he would have to go, leaving her to
wonder what manner of rôle he had been playing. Given one more day, one more
confidential chat with Miriam, he might have told her why he was here in
Galilee.

When the last song was ended, he waited in the shadows for the crowd to
disperse. Justus, he observed had moved forward to join Reuben's party as it
made its way to the street. It would be quite possible to overtake this
slow-moving group and say farewell to Miriam. Perhaps she might be glad if he
did. But on second thoughts that seemed inadvisable. It might prove
embarrassing to both of them. Perhaps Reuben and Naomi shared the obvious
suspicions of Justus that there was something irregular about this Roman's
tour of Galilee. After lingering indecisively until the little park was
cleared, Marcellus, deeply depressed and lonely, slowly retraced his way to
the camp, reproaching himself for having unnecessarily given them cause to
distrust him. He saw now that it would have been much more sensible if he had
told Justus, at the outset, why he wanted to visit Galilee. Of course Justus,
in that event, might have refused to conduct him; but the present situation
was becoming intolerable. Marcellus was very unhappy. He would have given
much for a talk with Demetrius tonight. Demetrius was resourceful. Had he
been present, by this time he would have found means for penetrating the
reticence of these Galileans.

* * * * *

It was nearing midday now. They had not exchanged a word for more than an
hour. Justus, who had been tramping on ahead, paused to wait for Marcellus to
come abreast of him. He pointed to a house on a near-by shady knoll.

'We will stop there,' he said, 'though it is likely that Amasiah and
Deborah have gone to Jerusalem. They weave excellent saddle-bags and sell
them to the bazaars when they attend the Passover.'

A stout, middle-aged woman came sauntering through the yard to meet them
as they turned in at the gate, her face suddenly beaming as she recognized
Justus. No, Amasiah was not at home. Yes, he had gone to Jerusalem.

'And why not you, Deborah?' asked Justus.

'Surely you know,' she sighed. 'I have no wish ever to see the Holy City
again. Nor would Amasiah have gone but to sell the saddle-bags.' She turned
inquiring eyes toward Marcellus, and Justus introduced him with cool
formality, explaining his mission. Deborah smiled briefly and murmured her
regret that they had nothing to sell. No, everything had gone with
Amasiah.

'All but a little saddle-blanket I made for Jasper,' she added. 'I can
show it to you.' They moved toward the house, and Deborah brought out the
saddle-blanket, a thick, well-woven trifle of gay colours. 'Jasper can get
along without it, if you want it.' She nodded toward a diminutive,
silver-grey donkey, browsing in the shade.

'I suppose Jasper is a little pet,' surmised Marcellus, lightly.

'Jasper is a little pest,' grumbled Deborah. 'I am too heavy to ride him
any more, and Amasiah says he isn't worth his keep in a pack-train.'

'Would you like to sell him?' inquired Marcellus.

'You wouldn't have any use for him,' said Deborah, honestly.

'How much would you want?' persisted Marcellus.

'What's he worth, Justus?' asked Deborah, languidly.

Justus sauntered over to the donkey, pulled his shaggy head up out of the
grass, and looked into his mouth.

'Well—if he's worth anything at all, which is doubtful, except maybe
for a child to play with—he should bring twelve to fifteen
shekels.'

'Has he any bad habits?' inquired Marcellus.

'Eating,' said Deborah, dryly.

'But he won't run away?'

'Oh, no; he won't run away. That would be too much of an effort.' They all
laughed but Jasper, who sighed deeply.

'I'll give you fifteen shekels for the donkey and the blanket,' bargained
Marcellus.

Deborah said that was fair enough, and added that there was quite a good
saddle, too, and a bridle that had been made specially for Jasper. She
brought them. It was a well-made saddle, and the bridle was gaily ornamented
with a red leather top-piece into which a little bell was set.

'How about twenty-five shekels for everything?' suggested Marcellus.

Deborah tossed the saddle across the donkey's back and began fastening the
girths. Marcellus opened his wallet. Justus, watching the pantomime,
chuckled. It relieved Marcellus to see him amused about something.

Jasper was reluctant to leave the grass-plot, but showed no distress when
it was time to part with Deborah, who had led him as far as the gate.
Marcellus took the reins and proceeded to the highway, Justus lingering for a
private word with Deborah.

Late in the afternoon they reached the frowsy fringe of little Sepphoris,
a typical Galilean village. Everybody waved a hand or called a greeting to
Justus as the big fellow trudged on with lengthening strides. Soon they were
nearing the inevitable public plaza. A small boy broke loose from a group of
children playing about the brick-walled well and came running toward Justus
with exultant shouts. He was a handsome lad with a sensitive face, a tousle
of curly black hair, and an agile body. Justus quickened his steps and caught
the little fellow up in his arms, hugging him hungrily. He stopped and turned
about, his eyes brightly proud.

'This is my Jonathan!' he announced, unnecessarily. The boy gave his
grandfather another strangling embrace and wriggled out of his arms. He had
sighted Jasper. 'Is this your donkey?' he cried.

'Perhaps you would like to ride him,' said Marcellus. Jonathan climbed on,
and Marcellus adjusted the stirrup-straps, a score of children gathering
about with high-keyed exclamations. Justus stood by, stroking his beard,
alternately smiling and frowning.

'What's his name?' asked Jonathan, as Marcellus put the reins in his
hands. His small voice was shrill with excitement.

'His name is Jasper,' said Marcellus. 'You may have him, Jonathan. He is
your donkey now.'

'Mine!' squeaked Jonathan. He gazed incredulously at his grandfather.

'This gentleman,' said Justus, 'is my friend, Marcellus Gallio. If he says
the donkey is yours, it must be so.' He turned to Marcellus, and said, above
the children's shouts of amazement at Jonathan's good fortune, 'That is most
generous of you, sir!'

'Is he one of us, Grandfather?' Jonathan pointed a finger at his
benefactor.

The two men exchanged quick glances, one frankly mystified, the other
somewhat embarrassed.

'No one has ever said "yes" to that question, Jonathan,' laughed
Marcellus, as Justus mumbled an unintelligible apology for his grandson's
impertinence.

'But you must be rich,' insisted Jonathan, 'to be giving your things away.
Did Jesus tell you to do that?' He thrust his small face forward and studied
Marcellus's eyes with childish candour. 'You knew Jesus, didn't you? Did my
grandfather tell you that Jesus straightened my foot, so I can walk and
run?'

The children were quiet now. Marcellus found himself confronted with the
necessity of making a public address, and was appropriately tongue-tied.
After a difficult interval, he stammered:

'Let us go now,' muttered Justus, uneasily. 'My house is close by. Come! I
want you to meet my daughter.'

Marcellus needed no urging. They proceeded up the street, their numbers
increasing as they went. The news had travelled fast. People came out of
their houses, wide-eyed with curiosity; children of all sizes ran to join the
procession. One small boy on crutches, dangling a useless leg, waited for the
parade, his pinched face alight with wonder. Justus stepped to the side of
the road and gave him a friendly pat on the head as he passed.

Now they had arrived at the modest little home. The door-yard was
scrupulously tidy. The narrow walk was bordered with tulips. Rebecca, a
gentle-voiced, plain-featured matron of thirty-five, met them, considerably
puzzled by all the excitement. Justus, on the doorstep, briefly explained;
and, with a new cordiality, presented Marcellus.

'Oh, you shouldn't have done that, sir,' murmured Rebecca, though her
shining eyes were full of appreciation. 'That is quite an expensive gift to
make to a little boy.'

'I'm fully repaid,' smiled Marcellus. 'It is evident that the donkey is a
success.'

'Look, Mother!' shouted Jonathan, waving his arm. 'It's MINE!'

Rebecca nodded and smiled, and the noisy pack moved on in the wake of the
town's young hero.

'This is a great day for Jonathan,' said Rebecca, as she led the way into
their small, frugally furnished parlour.

'Yes, yes,' sighed Justus, sinking into a chair. He was frowning
thoughtfully. 'It's a great day for the lad—but Jonathan's rather young
for a responsibility like that.'

'Oh, he's old enough,' remarked Marcellus. 'That lazy little donkey really
should belong to a child. Jonathan will get along with him splendidly.'

'As for that—yes,' agreed Justus, soberly. He stroked his beard
moodily, nodded his head several times and muttered to himself, 'Yes, yes;
that's a good deal to expect of a little boy.' Then suddenly brightening he
said to his daughter, 'Rebecca, we will pitch Marcellus Gallio's tent there
beside the house. And he will have his meals with us.'

'Oh, no,' declared Marcellus, amiably. 'My religion has never
inconvenienced anyone—not even me.' He quickly repented of his
flippancy when he observed that his remark had drawn down the corners of his
host's mouth.

'Do you mean that your people have no religion at all?' queried Justus,
soberly.

'No religion!' protested Marcellus. 'Why, we have gods on every
corner!'

'Idols, you mean,' corrected Justus, dourly.

'Statues,' amended Marcellus. 'Some of them quite well done, too. Imported
from Greece, most of them. The Greeks have a talent for it.'

'And your people worship these—statues?' wondered Justus.

'They seem to, sir. I suppose some of them are really sincere about it.'
Marcellus was tiring of this inquisition.

'But you, personally, do not worship these things,' persisted Justus.

'Oh, by no means!' Marcellus laughed.

'Then you do not believe in any Supreme Power?' Justus was shocked and
troubled.

'I admit, Justus, that all the theories I have heard on this subject are
unconvincing. I am open to conviction. I should be glad indeed to learn of a
reliable religion.'

Rebecca, scenting a difficult discussion, moved restlessly to the edge of
her chair, smiling nervously.

'I shall go and prepare your supper,' she said, rising. 'You men must be
starving.'

'I didn't mean to be offensive, Justus,' regretted Marcellus, when Rebecca
had left the room. 'You are a sincerely religious person, and it was
thoughtless of me to speak negligently of these matters.'

'No harm done,' said Justus, gently. 'You wish you could believe. That is
something. Is it not true, in our life, that they find who seek? You are a
man of good intent. You are kind. You deserve to have a religion.'

Marcellus couldn't think of an appropriate rejoinder to that, so he sat
silent, waiting for further directions. After a moment, Justus impulsively
slapped his big brown hands down on his knees in a gesture of adjournment;
and, rising, moved toward the door.

'Let us put up your tent, Marcellus,' he suggested kindly. It was the
first time he had spoken Marcellus's name without the formal addition of
'Gallio.'

* * * * *

Shortly after the family supper, which he had been too busy to attend,
Jonathan appeared at the open front of the brown tent. He stood with his feet
wide apart, his arms akimbo, and an expression of gravity on his sensitive
lips. It was apparent that the day's experiences had aged him
considerably.

Marcellus, writing at the small collapsible table, put down his stylus,
regarded his caller with interest, and grinned. He mistakenly thought he knew
what had been going on in Jonathan's mind. At the outset, his amazing
windfall had dizzied him into a state of emotional instability that had made
his voice squeaky and his postures jerky; but now that the crowd had gone
home, and Jasper had been shown into the unoccupied stall beside the cow, and
had been hand-fed with laboriously harvested clover, Jonathan's excitement
had cooled. He was becoming aware of his new status as a man of affairs, a
man of property, sole owner and proprietor of a donkey—the only man of
his age in all Sepphoris who owned a donkey. Even his grandfather didn't own
a donkey. Marcellus felt that Jonathan's behaviour was approximately normal
for a seven-year-old boy, in these circumstances.

'Well—did you put him up for the night?' he inquired, as one man to
another.

Jonathan pursed his lips and nodded gravely.

'Will you come in and sit down?'

Jonathan came in and sat down, crossing his legs with mature
deliberation.

'Did Jasper behave pretty well?'

Jonathan nodded several times, facing the ground.

Marcellus felt in need of some co-operation, but pursued his inquiries
hopefully.

'Didn't bite anybody? Or kick anybody? Or lie down in his harness and go
to sleep in the road?'

Jonathan shook his head slowly, without looking up, his tongue bulging his
cheek.

Not having conversed with a small boy for many years, Marcellus began to
realize that it wasn't as simple a matter as he had supposed.

'Well!' he exclaimed brightly. 'That's fine! Is there anything else you'd
like to tell me about it?'

Jonathan glumly raised his head and faced Marcellus with troubled eyes. He
swallowed noisily.

'Thomas asked me to let him have a ride,' he muttered, thickly.

'Something tells me that you refused,' ventured Marcellus.

Jonathan nodded remorsefully.

'I shouldn't fret about that,' went on Marcellus, comfortingly. 'You can
let Thomas ride to-morrow. Perhaps he shouldn't have expected you to lend him
your donkey on the very first day you had him. Is this Thomas a good friend
of yours?'

'Did you see the boy with the crutches, the one with the limber leg?'

'The little boy your grandfather stopped to speak to?'

Jonathan nodded.

'Well, you can make it up with Thomas,' Marcellus said soothingly. 'He'll
have plenty of chances to ride. See here—if you feel so upset about
this, why don't you run over to Thomas's house now and tell him he may ride
Jasper, first thing in the morning.'

'They're going away to-morrow,' croaked Jonathan, dismally. 'Thomas and
his mother. They don't live here. They live in Capernaum. They came here
because his grandmother was sick. And she died. And now they're going back to
Capernaum.'

'That's too bad,' said Marcellus. 'But it isn't your fault. If you're
troubled about it, perhaps you'd better talk it over with your grandfather.
Did you ever sleep in a tent, Jonathan?'

Jonathan shook his head, the gloom lifting a little.

'There's another cot we can set up,' said Marcellus. 'You go and talk to
your grandfather about Thomas, and ask your mother if you may sleep in the
tent.'

Jonathan grinned appreciatively and disappeared.

It was impossible not to overhear the conversation, for Justus was seated
near the open window within an arm's reach of the tent. After a while,
Marcellus became conscious of the deep, gentle voice of Justus and the rather
plaintive treble of his troubled grandson. Immensely curious to learn how all
this was coming out, he put down his stylus and listened.

'When Jesus told people to give their things away, he said that just to
rich people; didn't he, Grandfather?'

'Yes, just to people who had things they could divide with others.'

'Is Marcellus rich?'

'Yes, and he is very kind.'

'Did Jesus tell him to give his things away?'

There was a long pause here that made Marcellus hold his breath.

'I do not know, Jonathan. It is possible.'

There was another long silence, broken at length by the little boy.

'Grandfather, why didn't Jesus heal Thomas's leg?'

'I don't know, son. Perhaps Jesus wasn't told about it.'

'That was too bad,' lamented Jonathan. 'I wish he had.'

'Yes,' sighed Justus. 'That would make things much easier for you,
wouldn't it?'

'I'm glad he straightened my foot,' murmured Jonathan.

'Yes, that was wonderful!' rumbled Justus. 'Jesus was very good to you! I
know that if you could do anything for Jesus, you would be glad to; wouldn't
you?'

'Well, if you should find that there was something Jesus hadn't done,
because they hadn't told him about it, something he would have wanted to do,
if he had known; something he would want to do now, if he were still
here—'

'You mean—something for Thomas?' Jonathan's voice was thin.

'Had you thought,' asked Justus, 'there was something you might do for
Thomas?'

Little Jonathan was crying now; and from the sounds of shifting positions
within the room, Marcellus surmised that Justus had taken his unhappy
grandson in his arms. There was no more talk. After a half-hour or more,
Jonathan appeared, red-eyed and fagged, at the door of the tent.

'I'm going to sleep with Grandfather,' he gulped. 'He wants me to.'

'That's right, Jonathan,' approved Marcellus. 'Your grandfather hasn't
seen you for a long time. You may play in the tent to-morrow, if you
like.'

Jonathan lingered, scowling thoughtfully and blinking his eyes.

'Would it be all right with you if I gave Jasper away?' he asked, with an
effort.

'To Thomas, maybe?' wondered Marcellus.

Jonathan nodded, without looking up.

'Are you sure you want to?'

'No, I don't want to.'

'Well, you're a pretty brave little boy, Jonathan! I'll say that for you!'
declared Marcellus. This fervent praise, being altogether too much for
Jonathan, led to his sudden disappearance. Marcellus untied his sandal-straps
and lounged on his cot as the twilight deepened. This Jesus must have been a
man of gigantic moral power. He had been dead and in his grave for a year
now, but he had stamped himself so indelibly on the house of Justus that even
this child had been marked! The simile intrigued him for a moment. It was as
if this Jesus had taken a die and a hammer, and had pounded the image of his
spirit into this Galilean gold, converting it into the coins of his kingdom!
The man should have lived! He should have been given a chance to impress more
people! A spirit like that—if it contrived to get itself
going—could make the world a fit habitation for men of good will! But
Jesus was dead! A little handful of untutored country people in Galilee would
remember for a few years, and the great light would be extinguished. It would
be a pity! Little Jonathan would give up his donkey to a crippled boy, but
only Sepphoris would ever know about it. Miriam would sing her inspired
songs, but only for sequestered little Cana. Jesus' kingdom belonged to the
world! But its coinage was good only in the shabby villages of Galilee. He
would write that to-morrow, to Demetrius.

* * * * *

Marcellus ate his breakfast alone, Rebecca attentive but uncommunicative.
He had ventured upon several commonplace remarks, to which she had replied,
amiably enough, in listless monosyllables. Yes, Jonathan and his grandfather
had had their breakfast early. No, she didn't think they would be gone
long.

After he had eaten, Marcellus returned to the tent and continued writing
the letter he had begun to Demetrius; writing it in Greek, with no present
plans for its delivery. Everybody who was likely to be journeying to
Jerusalem at this season had already gone.

Presently Justus appeared at the tent-door. Marcellus signed to him to
come in, and he sat down on a camp-chair.

'Well,' began Marcellus, breaking a lengthy silence, 'I suppose little
Jonathan has done a generous deed—and broken his heart. I am sorry to
have caused him so much distress.'

'Do not reproach yourself, Marcellus. It may turn out well. True, the
child is a bit young to be put to such a severe test. We can only wait and
see how he behaves. This is a great day for Jonathan—if he can see it
through.' Justus was proud, but troubled.

'See it through!' echoed Marcellus. 'But he has seen it through! Hasn't he
given his donkey to the crippled lad? You don't think he may repent of his
generosity, and ask Thomas to give the donkey back, do you?'

'No, no—not that! But they're all down there on the corner telling
Jonathan what a fine little fellow he is. You should have heard them, when
Thomas and his mother set off—Thomas riding the donkey and his mother
walking alongside, so happy she was crying. And all the women caressing
Jonathan, and saying, "How sweet! How kind! How brave!"' Justus sighed
deeply. 'It was too bad! But, of course, I couldn't rebuke them. I came
away.'

'But Justus!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'Surely it is only natural that the
neighbours should praise Jonathan for what he did! It was no small sacrifice
for a little boy! Isn't it right that the child should be commended?'

'Commended, yes,' agreed Justus, 'but not praised overmuch. As you have
said, this thing has cost Jonathan a high price. He has a right to be
rewarded for it—in his heart. It would be a great pity if all he gets
out of it is smugness! There is no vanity so damaging to a man's character as
pride over his good deeds! Let him be proud of his muscles, his fleetness,
his strength, his face, his marksmanship, his craftsmanship, his
endurance—these are the common frailties that beset us all. But when a
man becomes vain in his goodness, it is a great tragedy! My boy is very young
and inexperienced. He could be so easily ruined by self-righteousness, almost
without realizing what ailed him.'

'I see what you mean,' declared Marcellus. 'I agree with you. This thing
will either make Jonathan strong—beyond his years, or it will make a
little prig of him. Justus—let's get out of here before the neighbours
have had a chance to ruin him. We'll take him along with us! What do you
say?'

Justus's eyes lighted. He nodded an enthusiastic approval.

'I shall speak with his mother,' he said. 'We will pack up and
leave—at once!'

'That's sensible,' said Marcellus. 'I was afraid you might insist on
Jonathan's remaining here, just to see how much of this punishment he could
take.'

'No!' said Justus. 'It wouldn't be fair to overload the little fellow. He
has done very well indeed. It is time now that we gave him a helping hand. We
too have some obligations in this case, my friend!'

'You're right!' Marcellus began rolling up the letter he had just
finished. 'I got Jonathan into this mess, and I'll do my best to help him
through it without his being damaged.'

Justus no more than had time to enter the house before Jonathan put in an
appearance at the door of the tent, wearing the wan, tremulous smile of a
patient burden-bearer.

'Hi! Jonathan,' greeted Marcellus, noisily. 'I hear you got young Thomas
started on his way. That's good. What do you want with a donkey, anyhow? You
have two of the best legs in town.' Busily preoccupied with the blankets he
was folding up and stuffing into a pack-saddle, he absently chattered on,
half to himself, 'A boy who was once a cripple, and then was cured, should be
so glad he could walk that he would never want to ride!'

'But Jasper was such a nice donkey,' replied Jonathan, biting his lip.
'Everybody said they didn't know how I could give him up.'

'Well, never mind what everybody said!' barked Marcellus. 'Don't let them
spoil it for you now. You're a stout little fellow—and that's the end
of it! Here! blow your nose, and give me a hand on this strap!'

Justus appeared in time to hear the last of it. He winced—and
grinned.

'Jonathan,' he said, 'we are taking you with us for a few days' journey.
Your mother is packing some things for you.'

'ME? I'm going with you?' squealed Jonathan. 'Oh!' and he raced around the
corner of the tent, shouting gleefully.

Justus and Marcellus exchanged sober glances.

'That was a brutal thing I did just now!' muttered Marcellus.

'"Faithful are the wounds of a friend,"' said Justus. 'Jonathan will
recover. He already has something new to think about—now that he is
going with us.'

'By the way, Justus, where ARE we going?'

'I had thought of Capernaum next.'

'That can wait. We might overtake Thomas and Jasper. We don't want to see
any more of them to-day. Let's go back to Cana. It will do little Jonathan
good to have a look at Miriam.'

Justus tried to conceal a broad grin by tugging at his beard.

'Perhaps it would do you good too, Marcellus,' he ventured. 'But will you
not be wasting your time? We have seen everything there is for sale—in
Cana.' Suddenly Marcellus, who had been tossing camp equipment into a wicker
box, straightened and looked Justus squarely in the eyes.

'I think I have bought all the homespun I want,' he announced, bluntly.
'What I have been learning about this Jesus has made me curious to hear more.
I wonder if you will help me meet a few people who knew him—people who
might be willing to talk about him.'

'That would be difficult,' said Justus, frankly. 'Our people have no
reasons for feeling that they can talk freely with Romans. They would find it
hard to understand why a man of your nation should be making inquiries about
Jesus. Perhaps you are not aware that the Romans put him to death. Maybe you
do not know that the legionaries—especially in Jerusalem—are on
the alert for any signs that the friends of Jesus are organized.'

'Do you suspect me of being a spy, Justus?' asked Marcellus, bluntly.

'No, I do not think you are a spy. I do not know what you are, Marcellus;
but I am confident that you have no evil intent. I shall be willing to tell
you some things about Jesus.'

'Thank you, Justus.' Marcellus drew from his tunic the letter he had
written. 'Tell me: how may I send this to Jerusalem?'

Justus frowned, eyeing the scroll suspiciously.

'There is a Roman fort at Capernaum,' he muttered. 'Doubtless they have
messengers going back and forth, every few days.'

Marcellus handed him the scroll and pointed to the address.

'I do not want this letter handled through the Capernaum fort,' he said,
'or the Insula at Jerusalem. It must be delivered by a trusted messenger into
the care of the Greek, Stephanos, at Benyosef's shop.'

'So you do know that slave Demetrius,' commented Justus. 'I thought as
much.'

'Yes, he is MY slave.'

'I had wondered about that, too.'

'Indeed! Well, what else had you wondered about? Let's clean it all up,
while we're at it.'

'I have wondered what your purpose was in making this trip into Galilee,'
said Justus, brightening a little.

'Well—now you know; don't you?'

'I am not sure that I do.' Justus laid a hand on Marcellus's arm. 'Tell me
this: did you ever see Jesus; ever hear him talk?'

'Yes,' admitted Marcellus, 'but I could not understand what he said. At
that time I did not know the language.'

'Did you study Aramaic so you could learn something about him?'

'Yes, I had no other interest in it.'

'Let me ask one more question.' Justus lowered his voice. 'Are you one of
us?'

'That's what I came up here to find out,' said Marcellus. 'Will you help
me?'

'As much as I can,' agreed Justus, 'as much as you are able to
comprehend.'

Marcellus looked puzzled.

'Do you mean that there are some mysteries here that I am not bright
enough to understand?' he demanded, soberly.

'Bright enough, yes,' rejoined Justus. 'But an understanding of Jesus is
not a mere matter of intelligence. Some of this story has to be accepted by
faith.'

'So much the better,' declared Justus. 'The higher the price you have to
pay, the more you will cherish what you get.' Impulsively throwing aside his
coat, he began pulling up tent-stakes. 'We will talk more about this later,'
he said. 'It is time we were on our way if we hope to reach Cana by sunset.'
Suddenly he straightened with a new idea. 'I have it!' he exclaimed. 'We will
go to Nazareth! It is much nearer than Cana. Nazareth was Jesus' home town.
His mother lives there still. She will not hesitate to talk freely with you.
When she learns that you—a Roman—saw her son, and was so
impressed that you wanted to know more about him, she will tell you
everything!'

'No—no!' exclaimed Marcellus, wincing. 'I have no wish to see her.'
Noting the sudden perplexity on Justus's face, he added, 'I feel sure she
would not want to talk about her son—to a Roman.'

* * * * *

For the first three miles, Jonathan frolicked about the little caravan
with all the aimless extravagance of a frisky pup, dashing on ahead,
inexpertly throwing stones at the crows, and making many brief excursions
into the fields. But as the sun rose higher, his wild enthusiasm came under
better control. Now he was content to walk sedately beside his grandfather,
taking long strides and feeling very manly. After a while he took his
grandfather's hand and shortened his steps at the request of his aching
legs.

Preoccupied with their conversation, which was weighty, Justus had been
only vaguely aware of the little boy's weariness; but when he stumbled and
nearly fell, they all drew up in the shade, unloaded the pack-train, and
reapportioned their burdens so that the smallest donkey might be free for a
rider. Jonathan made no protest when they lifted him up.

'I wish I had kept that nice saddle,' he repined.

'No, you don't,' drawled Marcellus. 'When you give anything away, make a
good job of it. Don't skimp!'

'Our friend speaks truly, my boy,' said Justus. 'The donkey will carry you
safely without a saddle. Let us move on, and when the sun is directly
overhead, we will have something to eat.'

'I'm hungry now!' murmured Jonathan.

'The bread will taste better at noon,' advised Justus.

'I'm hungry too,' intervened Marcellus, mercifully. As he unstrapped the
hamper, he added, out of the corner of his mouth, 'He's only a baby, Justus.
Don't be too hard on him.'

Justus grumbled a little over the delay and the breakdown of discipline,
but it was easy to see that he had been mellowed by Marcellus's gentle
defence of the child. A token lunch was passed about, and presently they were
on the highway again.

'You would have been delighted with the mind of Jesus,' said Justus,
companionably. 'You have a generous heart, Marcellus. How often he talked
about generosity! In his opinion there was nothing meaner than a mean gift.
About the worst thing a man could do to himself or a fellow creature was to
bestow a grudged gift. It was very hard on a man's character to GIVE away
something that should have been THROWN away! That much of Jesus' teachings
you could accept, my friend, without any difficulty.'

'That is a friendly comment, Justus, but you do me too much credit,'
protested Marcellus. 'The fact is, I have never in my life given anything
away that impoverished me in the least. I have never given anything away that
I needed or wanted to keep. I suppose Jesus parted with everything he
had.'

'Everything!' said Justus. 'He had nothing but the garments he wore. He
held that if a man had two coats, he should give one away. During his last
year with us he wore a good robe. Perhaps he would have given that away, too,
if it hadn't been given to him in peculiar circumstances.'

'Would you like to tell me about it?' asked Marcellus.

'There was an ill-favoured woman in Nazareth who was suspected of
practising witchcraft. She was a dwarfish person with an ugly countenance,
and walked alone, friendless and bitter. The children cried after her on the
road. And so a legend spread that Tamar had an evil eye. One Sabbath day the
neighbours heard her loom banging, and warned her against this breaking of
the law; for many of our people have more respect for the Sabbath than they
have for one another. Tamar did not heed the warning and she was reported to
the authorities, who burst in upon her, on a Sabbath morning, and destroyed
her loom which was her living. Perhaps you can guess the rest of the story,'
said Justus.

'It was fortunate for Tamar that Jesus was a good carpenter,' remarked
Marcellus. 'But what did the authorities think of his coming to Tamar's aid?
Did they accuse him of being sympathetic with Sabbath-breakers?'

'That they did!' declared Justus. 'It was at a time when the priests were
on the alert to find him at fault. The people often urged him to speak in the
village synagogues, and this displeased the rabbis. They were always
haranguing the people about their tithes and sacrificial offerings. But Jesus
talked about friendship and hospitality to strangers and relief for the
poor.'

'Oh, yes, of course. They took it for granted that everybody was agreed on
that.'

'In theory, at least,' surmised Marcellus.

'Exactly! In theory. But securing funds to support the synagogue—
that was practical! They had to talk constantly about money. It left them no
time to talk about the things of the spirit.'

'Well, go on about Tamar,' interposed Marcellus. 'I suppose Jesus
reconstructed her loom—and she wove him the robe.'

'Right! And he wore it until he died.'

'Were you there, when he died?' asked Marcellus, uneasily.

'No, I was in prison.' Justus seemed disinclined to enlarge upon this
matter; but, when questioned, told the story briefly. A few days before his
trial for treason and disturbing the peace, Jesus had impulsively driven the
hucksters and bankers out of the Temple. Several of his friends had been
arrested and thrown into prison on the charge of having gathered up some of
the scattered coins from the pavement. The accusation was untrue, Justus
insisted, but they were kept in prison for a fortnight. 'It was all over,' he
said, sadly, 'when we were released. As for the robe—the Roman soldiers
gambled for it, and carried it away with them. We often wondered what became
of it. It could have had no value—for them.'

It was noon now, and a halt was made in a little grove where there was a
spring and a green grass-plot for grazing. The donkeys were unburdened and
tethered. The food was unpacked; a wineskin, a basket of bread, a parcel of
smoked fish, an earthenware jar of cooked barley, a box of sun-cured figs.
They spread a blanket on the ground for little Jonathan, who, stuffed to
repletion and wearied by the journey, promptly tumbled down to sleep. Justus
and Marcellus, lounging on the grass, pursued a low-voiced conversation.

'Sometimes thoughtless people misunderstood his attitude toward business,'
Justus was saying. 'His critics noised it about that he had contempt for
barter and trade; that he had no respect for thrift and honest
husbandry.'

'I had wondered about that,' said Marcellus. 'There has been much talk
about his urging people to give things away. It had occurred to me that this
could be overdone. If men recklessly distributed their goods to all comers,
how could they provide for their own dependents?'

'Let me give you an illustration,' said Justus. 'This subject came up, one
day, and Jesus dealt with it in a story. He was forever contriving simple
little fables. He said, a man with a vineyard wanted his grapes picked, for
they were now ripe. Going down to the public market, he asked a group of
idlers if they wanted a job. They said they would work all day for one
denarius.'

'Rather high,' observed Marcellus.

'Rather! But the grapes had to be picked immediately, and the man wasn't
in a position to argue; so he took them on. By noon, it was apparent that he
would need more help. Again in the market-place he asked the unemployed what
they would take to work that afternoon. And they said, "We will leave that to
you, sir." Well, when evening came, the men who had bargained with him for
one denarius were paid off according to agreement. Then came the men who had
worked shorter hours, leaving the wages to the owner's generosity.'

'So, what did he do?' wondered Marcellus, sincerely interested.

'Gave every man a denarius! All the way up and down the line—one
denarius! He even gave a denarius to a few who hadn't worked more than an
hour!'

'That might have started a row,' surmised Marcellus.

'And indeed it DID! The men who had worked all day complained bitterly.
But the owner said, "I paid you the price you had demanded. That was
according to contract. These other men made no demands, but relied on my good
will."'

'Excellent!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'If a man drives a hard bargain with you
and you are forced to concede to it, you have no obligation to be generous.
But if he lets YOU say how much he should have, that's likely to cost you
something!'

'There you are!' nodded Justus. 'You have a right to weigh it out by the
pennyworth, if the other fellow haggles. But if he leaves it to you, the
measure you give must be pressed down, shaken together, and running
over!'

'Justus,' declared Marcellus, 'if it became a custom for people to deal
with one another in that way, the market-place wouldn't be quite so noisy,
would it?'

'And all men would be better off,' said Justus. 'People wouldn't have to
be taxed to employ patrols to keep the peace. And as the idea spread,' he
added, dreamily, 'all the armies could be demobilized. That would lift a
great weight off the shoulders of the people. And once they had experienced
this more abundant life that Jesus proposed, it is not likely they would want
to return to the old way.'

For some time they sat in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.

'Of course, it's utterly impractical,' declared Marcellus. 'Only a little
handful would make the experiment, and at ruinous cost. The great majority
would sneer and take advantage of them, considering them cowardly and
feeble-minded for not defending their rights. They would soon be stripped of
everything!'

'That's true,' admitted Justus. 'Stripped of everything but THE GREAT
IDEA! But, Marcellus, that idea is like a seed. It doesn't amount to much if
you expect immediate returns. But if you're willing to plant it, and nourish
it—'

'I suppose,' remarked Marcellus, 'it is as if some benefactor appeared in
the world with a handful of new grain which, if men should feed on it, would
give them peace and prosperity.'

'Very good,' approved Justus, 'but that handful of grain would not go very
far unless it were sowed and reaped and sowed, again and again. Jesus talked
about that. Much of this seed, he said, would never come up. Some of it would
lodge in the weeds and brambles. Some of it would fall upon stony ground. But
a little of it would grow.'

'Justus, do you honestly believe there's any future for a theory like
that—in this greedy world?' Marcellus was deeply in earnest.

'Yes, I do!' declared Justus. 'I believe it because he believed it! He
said it would work like yeast in meal; slowly, silently; but—once it
began—nothing could ever stop it. Nobody would ever be able to shut it
off, or dig it up, or tear it out!'

'But—why did it begin up here, in poor little Galilee—so
remote from the main centres of world development?' wondered Marcellus.

'Well,' reflected Justus, 'it had to begin SOMEWHERE!' After a moment of
meditation, he faced Marcellus with a sly grin. 'Do you think this seed might
have had a better chance to take root and grow, if it had fallen on the
streets in Rome?'

'I think the question answers itself,' conceded Marcellus.

Justus reached over and patted the little boy's tanned cheek.

'On, now, to Cana,' he said, scrambling to his feet.

In a few minutes they were on the highway, Justus leading with long,
swinging strides, indulging in a reminiscent monologue.

'How often we came over this road together!' he was recalling. 'Jesus
loved Cana better than any other town in Galilee.'

'Better than Nazareth?' queried Marcellus.

'They never quite appreciated his spirit in Nazareth,' explained Justus.
'You know how it is. A prophet has no standing in his own community. The
Nazarenes used to say, "How can this man have any wisdom? Don't WE know
him?"'

'Apparently they didn't rank very high in their own esteem,' laughed
Marcellus.

'It was natural,' said Justus, sobering. 'He had grown up with them. He
never held it against them that they did not respond to his teachings as they
did in Cana and Capernaum. It was in Cana that he first exercised the
peculiar powers you will be hearing about. I don't suppose anyone has told
you what happened there, one day, at a wedding?'

'No,' replied Marcellus, attentively. 'What happened?'

It was a story of some length, and Justus was so particular about the
small details that Marcellus immediately surmised its importance. Anna, the
daughter of Hariph and Rachel, was to be married. Hariph was a potter, an
industrious fellow, but by no means prosperous, and the expense of the
wedding dinner for Anna was not easy for them. However, Hariph was going to
see his child properly honoured. Anna was very popular, and Hariph and Rachel
had a host of relatives. Everybody was invited and everybody came.

'Were you there, Justus?'

'No, that was before I knew Jesus. The story of what occurred, that day,
quickly spread far and wide. I don't mind telling you that when I heard it, I
doubted it.'

'Get on with it, please!' insisted Marcellus.

'Jesus arrived late. The wedding rites had been performed, and the guests
had been at table for some time when he appeared. Poor Hariph was unhappy. He
had not provided enough wine for so large a crowd. His predicament was
whispered into Jesus' ear.'

Justus tramped on for half a stadium in moody silence.

'Maybe it is not the time yet to tell you this,' he muttered. 'You will
not believe it. I did not believe it when they told me! Well, Jesus slipped
away from the table, and went to the small serving-room. He saw some of
Hariph's earthenware jars in the little court outside, and told the servants
to fill them with water. Then, having instructed them to serve it to the
guests, he went back and resumed his place at the table. When the water was
served, IT WAS WINE!'

'No, Justus, it couldn't be!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'This spoils the story
of Jesus!'

'I was afraid you weren't ready for it, my friend,' regretted Justus.

'Oh, but there must have been some better explanation of that wine,'
insisted Marcellus. 'Jesus comes in with that radiant personality; everyone
loving him. And even the water they drank in his presence tasted like wine!
And so, this other utterly preposterous tale got bruited about.'

'Have it your own way, Marcellus,' consented Justus, kindly. 'It does not
offend me that you doubt the story. You can believe in the wisdom and
goodness of Jesus without that.'

They proceeded, without further conversation, up the long hill where, at
the crest, Justus stopped, cupped his eyes with his big, brown hands, and
gazed intently down the narrow road as far as he could see; a familiar,
though unexplained, occurrence. The best Marcellus could make of these
frequent long-range observations was his belief that Justus was expecting to
meet someone by appointment. To-day he thought of asking about it, but
decided to wait until Justus wanted to tell him.

While they tarried, at the top of the hill, for the pack-train to overtake
them, Marcellus broke the silence with a question.

'Did you not tell me, Justus, that Miriam discovered her matchless voice
while her family was absent from home, attending a wedding-feast to which she
had been invited—and had refused to go?'

'Yes,' assented Justus. 'It was Anna's wedding.'

'Jesus arrived late at the wedding,' remembered Marcellus.

'Yes.' Justus nodded and they exchanged a look of mutual
understanding.

'I wonder what made him late,' reflected Marcellus.

'I, too, have often wondered about that,' said Justus, quietly.

'Do you suppose he might have asked Miriam not to tell?'

'It is possible.'

'So far as you know, Justus,' persisted Marcellus, 'did he ever confer a
great gift upon someone, and request the beneficiary to keep it a
secret?'

'Yes,' said Justus. 'There were many evidences of such events.'

'How do you explain that?' Marcellus wanted to know.

'Jesus found any public display of charity very offensive,' said Justus.
'Had it been possible, I think he would have preferred to do all his generous
deeds in secret. On one occasion he said to a great throng that had gathered
on a hillside to hear him talk, "When you make gifts, do not let them be
seen. Do not sound a trumpet that you may receive praise. When you do your
alms-giving, let not your left hand know what your right hand is doing. No
one but your Father will see. Only your Father will reward you."'

'What did he mean, Justus—about your Father rewarding you, if no one
else knows? Take little Jonathan's case, for example: if nobody had learned
about his giving his donkey to the crippled lad, would he have been secretly
rewarded?'

'Of course!' declared Justus. 'If no one had known about the gift,
Jonathan's heart would have overflowed with happiness. You wouldn't have
heard him wishing that he had kept the saddle!'

'But the child had no way of keeping the matter quiet!' expostulated
Marcellus.

'True,' nodded Justus. 'That was not Jonathan's fault, but his
misfortune.'

'Do you think that peculiar radiance of Miriam's can be accounted for by
her having kept her secret? In her case, she was not the donor. She was the
recipient!'

'I know,' agreed Justus. 'If the recipient doesn't tell, then the donor is
rewarded in his heart. It is thus that the recipient helps him to obtain his
reward.'

'But now that Jesus is dead,' argued Marcellus, with a puzzled look,
'Miriam is free to tell her secret, is she not?'

They had reached Cana too late to hear Miriam sing, but
Marcellus thought it was just as well, for Jonathan was so tired and sleepy
that he could hardly hold his head up.

By the time they had pitched camp, washed off their dust, eaten a light
supper, and put the little boy to bed, many voices could be heard; villagers
strolling home in the moonlight from their customary rendezvous at the
fountain.

Justus sauntered out to the street. Marcellus, wearily stretched at full
length on his cot, heard him talking to a friend. After a while he returned
to say he had been informed by Hariph the potter that Jesse, the son of
Beoni, was leaving early in the morning for Jerusalem. Doubtless he would
carry the letter to Demetrius.

'Very good!' Marcellus handed him the scroll and unstrapped his coin
purse. 'How much will he expect?'

'Ten shekels should be enough.' There was an expression of satisfaction in
Justus's face and tone, perhaps because the letter had been given up so
casually. His look said that there could be nothing conspiratorial in this
communication. 'Jesse will probably be over here presently,' he added.
'Hariph will tell him. He lives hard by the home of Beoni.'

'You can talk with him,' said Marcellus. 'I am going to sleep.'

And he did; but after a while the murmur of low-pitched voices roused him.
He raised up on his elbow, and through the open tent-door the white moonlight
showed Justus and a stocky, shaggy-haired man of thirty, seated cross-legged
on the ground. Jesse, the son of Beoni, was rumbling gutturally about the
business that was taking him to Jerusalem. He was going to attend the annual
camel auction. They always had it at the end of Passover. Many caravans from
afar, having disposed of their merchandise, offered their pack- animals for
sale rather than trek them home without a pay-load. You could get a sound,
three-year-old she-camel for as little as eighty shekels, Jesse said. He
hoped to buy six, this time. He could easily sell them in Tiberias for a
hundred or better. Yes—he made this trip every year. Yes, he would
gladly carry Justus's letter to the Greek who worked for Benyosef. And when
Justus asked him how much, Jesse said, 'Nothing at all. It's no bother.'

'But it isn't my letter,' explained Justus. 'It is sent by this Roman,
Marcellus Gallio, who is up here buying homespun. He's there in the tent,
asleep.'

'Oh, that one! My mother told me about him. It is strange that he should
want our simple weaving. No one ever thought it was valuable. Well, if it is
his letter, and not yours, he should pay me eight shekels.'

'He will give you ten.' The coins were poured chinking into Jesse's
hand.

'Eight is enough,' said Jesse. 'You keep the other two.'

'But I have done nothing to earn them,' protested Justus. 'They are yours.
I think the Roman would prefer to give you ten.'

Jesse chuckled, not very pleasantly.

'Since when have the Romans turned soft-hearted?' he growled. 'I hope
there is nothing queer about this scroll. They tell me the jail in Jerusalem
is alive with vermin. What say you, Justus? You ought to know.' Jesse laughed
at his own grim jest. 'You lodged there for a couple of weeks, last
spring.'

Marcellus could not hear Justus's rejoinder. Perhaps he had merely grinned
or scowled at Jesse's bucolic raillery.

'You can trust Marcellus,' said Justus, confidently. 'He is a man of good
will. Not all Romans are crooked, Jesse. You know that.'

'You mean the Centurion, over in Capernaum, whose orderly Jesus cured of a
palsy? Did you have dealings with him, Jesse?'

'I sold him four camels—shortly before that affair of his servant.
Three, for a hundred each. I told him he could have the other one for sixty
because she was spavined. And he said, "She doesn't limp. What did you pay
for her?" And I said, "Eighty, but I didn't know the spavin was bad until we
were on the road two days." And he said, "She seems to be all right now." And
I said, "She's rested. But she'll go lame on a long journey with anything of
a load." And he said, "You needn't have told me." Then he said, "Do you know
Jesus?" And I said, "Yes." And he said, "I thought so." And then he said,
"Let's split the cost of the spavin. I'll give you seventy." And I said,
"That's fair enough." And then I said, "Do you know Jesus, sir?" And he said,
"No, but I heard him talk, one day." And then I asked him, just as if we were
equals, "Are you one of us?" And he was busy counting out the money, and
didn't answer that; but when he handed it to me he said—that was four
years ago, and I looked younger than now—he said, "You keep on
listening to Jesus, boy! You'll never be rich, but you'll never be
poor!"'

'I'm glad you told me that, Jesse,' said Justus. 'You see what happened
there? Hortensius heard Jesus talk about how people ought to treat one
another. And maybe he wondered whether anybody was trying to practise it. And
then you told him the truth about the spavined camel. And he began to believe
that Jesus had great power.'

Jesse laughed.

'So you think the camel deal had something to do with his believing that
Jesus could cure his sick orderly.'

'Why not?' It was Justus's turn to chuckle. 'I suppose the Centurion
decided that any man who could influence a Jewish camel-drover to tell the
truth about a spavin should be able to heal the sick. But'—Justus's
tone was serious now—'however Hortensius came by his faith, he had
plenty of it. I was there that day, Jesse. The Centurion came forward—a
fine figure, too, in full uniform—and said, very deferentially, that
his servant was sick unto death. Would Jesus heal him? "You need not trouble
to come to my house, sir," he said. "If you will say that my servant is
healed, that will be sufficient." Jesus was much pleased. Nothing like that
had happened before. None of us had ever been so sure as that. He said to
Hortensius, "You have great faith. Your wish is granted."'

'And then,' Jesse recollected, 'they say that almost everyone in the crowd
set off at top speed for Hortensius's house.'

'Yes,' said Justus, 'and they never did agree on a story. One report had
it that the restored orderly met Hortensius at the gate. Some said the follow
was recovered and sitting up in bed. Others told that when the Centurion
returned, the orderly was saddling a horse to ride to Capernaum. You know how
these rumours get about. I suppose the fact is that none of these curious
people was admitted to the Centurion's grounds.'

'But the man did recover, that day, from his sickness, didn't he?' Jesse
insisted.

'He did, indeed!' declared Justus. 'I heard him say so. By the way, think
you that Hortensius will be made Commander of the fort at Capernaum, now that
old Julian has been promoted to succeed Pilate?'

'No such luck for Galilee!' grumbled Jesse. 'Everyone likes Hortensius. He
is a just man, and he would be friendly to our cause. That old fox Herod will
see to it that someone tougher than Hortensius gets the job. The thing that
surprises me is the appointment of lazy old Julian to the Insula at
Jerusalem.'

'Perhaps it's because Julian is lazy that the Temple crowd wanted him as
their Procurator,' suggested Justus. 'The more indolent and indifferent he
is, the more power will be exercised by the High Priest. He will let Caiaphas
do anything he pleases. There are times, Jesse,' went on Justus,
thoughtfully, 'when a weak, lazy, vacillating man—of good
intent—is more to be feared than a crafty and cruel man. He shuts his
eyes—and lets the injustices and persecutions proceed. In truth, our
cause would have been better served if Pilate had remained.'

'Does anyone know what has become of Pilate?' asked Jesse.

'Sent back to Crete, I understand. Better climate. The rumour is that
Pontius Pilate is a sick man. He hasn't made a public appearance for quite a
year.'

'Why, that goes back to the crucifixion!' said Jesse. 'Do you mean that
Pilate hasn't been seen in public since that day?'

'That's what they say. Benyosef thinks Pilate's sickness is mental.'

'Well, if that's the case, a change of climate will do him no good,'
remarked Jesse. 'Hariph says he heard that there's talk of transferring the
Commander of the fort at Minoa to Capernaum.'

'Impossible!' muttered Justus. 'They wouldn't dare! It was the legion from
Minoa that put Jesus to death!'

'Yes, I know that,' said Jesse. 'I think, too, that it's just idle talk.
Hariph didn't say where he'd picked it up. Someone told him that this Paulus
from Minoa would probably be our next Commander. If so, we will have to be
more careful than ever.'

Justus sighed deeply and rose to his feet.

'I must not keep you longer, Jesse. You have a long day ahead of you.
Salute Benyosef for me, and any of the others who may have returned, now that
the Passover is at an end. And'—he laid a hand on Jesse's
shoulder—'keep watchful eyes on the roads, for no one knows the day, or
the hour—' His deep voice subsided to a whisper. They shook hands and
Jesse drifted away.

With his face turned toward the tent-wall, Marcellus feigned sleep when
Justus entered quietly. For a long time he lay wide awake, pondering the
things he had overheard. So, it hadn't been so easy for Pilate. Pilate had
washed his hands in the silver basin, but apparently the Galilean's blood was
still there. So, Julian was in command at Jerusalem: Caiaphas could have his
own way now. Julian wouldn't know; wouldn't care if he did know what
persecutions were practised on the little handful that wanted to keep the
memory of Jesus alive. It wouldn't be long until old Benyosef and his
secretive callers would have to give it all up. And perhaps Paulus was to be
sent up here to keep Galilee in order. Well, maybe Paulus wouldn't be as hard
on them as they feared. Paulus wasn't a bad fellow. Paulus had been forced to
take part in the crucifixion of Jesus. That didn't mean he had approved of
it. It was conceivable that Paulus might even take an interest in the
Galilean friends of Jesus. But they would never accept his friendship. The
very sight of him would be abhorrent. Justus's comments had made that clear.
A man who had had anything to do with nailing their adored Jesus to the cross
could never hope to win their good will, no matter how generously he treated
them.

Marcellus realized now that he had been altogether too sanguine in
believing that his sincere interest in the story of Jesus might make it safe
for him to confide in Miriam. He had been telling himself that
Miriam—uncannily gifted with sympathetic understanding—would
balance his present concern about Jesus against the stark facts of his part
in the tragedy. Miriam, he felt, would be forgiving. That was her nature;
and, besides, she liked him, and would give him the benefit of whatever
doubts intruded. Perhaps he would not need to go the whole way with his
confession. It might be enough to say that he had attended the trial of
Jesus, and had seen him die. Whether he could bring himself to be more
specific about his own participation in this shameful business would depend
upon her response as he proceeded.

But he knew now that such a conversation with Miriam was unthinkable!
Justus, too, was a fair-minded person to whom one might safely confide almost
anything; but Justus had revolted against the shocking suggestion that an
officer from MINOA might be sent to preserve the peace of Galilee. 'They
wouldn't dare!' Justus had muttered through locked teeth.

No, he couldn't tell Miriam. Perhaps it would be more prudent if he made
no effort to see her alone.

* * * * *

Hariph the potter, upon whom Cana relied for most of its information on
current events, had risen at daybreak with the remembrance that Reuben had
mentioned his need of a few wine-jars. Although it lacked some three months
of the wine-pressing season, this was as good a time as any to learn Reuben's
wishes. Also, he thought Reuben might be glad to learn that Barsabas Justus
had arrived in Cana, last evening, with his small grandson—the one who,
crippled from birth, had been made sound as any boy ever was—and the
handsome young Roman who, for some obscure reason, was buying up homespun at
better than market prices. To this might be added the knowledge that Jesse,
the son of Beoni, had been engaged by this Marcellus to carry an important
letter to Jerusalem. After these items had been dealt out to Reuben,
piecemeal, he could be told that Justus would be taking his grandson to see
Miriam.

And so it happened that when the three callers sauntered across Reuben's
well-kept lawn, at mid-forenoon, instead of taking the family by surprise
they discovered that their visit was awaited.

Feeling that little Jonathan might enjoy a playmate, Miriam had sent for
her nine-year-old cousin Andrew, who lived a mile farther out in the country.
And Andrew's widowed mother, Aunt Martha, had been invited too, which had
made her happy, for she had not seen Justus in recent months. There were many
questions she wanted to ask him.

They were all in the arbour, grouped about Miriam, who was busy with the
inevitable embroidery. She was very lovely, this morning, with a translucent
happiness that made her even prettier than Marcellus had remembered. After
greetings and introductions had been attended to—the artless sincerity
of Miriam's welcome speeding Marcellus's pulse—they all found seats.
Miriam held out a slim hand to Jonathan and gave him a brooding smile that
brought him shyly to her side.

'You must be a very strong boy, Jonathan,' she told him, 'keeping up with
these big men on a journey, all the way from Sepphoris.'

'I rode a donkey—most of the time,' he mumbled, self-consciously;
then, with more confidence, 'I had a nicer donkey—of my own. His name
was Jasper.' He pointed a finger vaguely in Marcellus's direction without
looking at him. 'He gave Jasper to me. And I gave him to Thomas, because
Thomas is lame.'

'Oh, what a lovely thing to do!' exclaimed Miriam. Her shining eyes
drifted past Jonathan and gave Marcellus a heart-warming glance, and then
darted to Justus, whose lips were drawn down in grim warning. 'I suppose
Thomas really needs a donkey,' she went on accepting Justus's hint. 'It must
have made you very happy to do that for him.'

Jonathan smiled wanly, put one brown bare foot on top of the other, and
seemed to be meditating a dolorous reply. Divining his mood, Miriam
interrupted with a promising diversion.

'Andrew,' she called, 'why don't you take Jonathan to see the conies?
There are some little ones, Jonathan, that haven't opened their eyes
yet.'

This suggestion was acted upon with alacrity. When the children had
scampered away, Naomi turned to Marcellus.

'What's all this about the donkey?' she inquired, smiling.

Marcellus recrossed his long legs and wished that he had been included in
the expedition to inspect the conies.

'I think Jonathan has told it all,' he replied, negligently. 'I found a
lazy little donkey that nobody wanted and gave him to Jonathan. There was a
lame lad in the neighbourhood and Jonathan generously presented him with the
donkey. We thought that was pretty good—for a seven-year-old.'

'But we don't want his good-heartedness to go to his head,' put in Justus,
firmly. 'He's already much impressed.'

'But Jonathan is only a child, Barsabas Justus,' protested Miriam.

'Of course!' murmured Martha.

'I know,' mumbled Justus, stroking his beard. 'But we can't have him
spoiled, Miriam. If you have an opportunity, speak to him about it.... Well,
Reuben, what's the prospect for the vineyard?'

'Better than usual, Justus.' Reuben slowly rose from his chair. 'Want to
walk out and have a look at the vines?'

They ambled away. Presently Naomi remembered something she had to do in
the kitchen. Aunt Martha, with a little nod and a smile, thought she might
help. Miriam bent over her work attentively as they disappeared around the
corner of the house.

'You have been much in my thoughts, Marcellus,' she said, softly, after a
silence which they both had been reluctant to invade with some casual
banality.

'You can see that I wanted to come back.' Marcellus drew his chair
closer.

'And now that you're here'—Miriam smiled into his eyes
companionably—'what shall we talk about first?'

'I am much interested in the story of that carpenter who did so many
things for your people.'

Miriam's eyes widened happily.

'I knew it!' she cried.

'How could you have known it?' wondered Marcellus.

'Oh, by lots of little things—strung together. You knew nothing
about textiles, nor does good old Justus, for that matter. You have had no
experience in bargaining. It was clear that you were in Galilee on some other
errand.'

'True—but what made you think I was interested in Jesus?'

'Your choosing Justus to conduct you. He saw as much of Jesus as anyone,
except Simon and the Zebedee boys who were with him constantly. But you had
me quite mystified.' She shook her head and laughed softly. 'Romans are under
suspicion. I couldn't understand why Justus had consented to come up here
with you. Then it came out that you knew the Greek who works for Benyosef. He
must have planned your meeting with Justus, for surely that was no accident!
The men who frequent Benyosef's shop are friends of Jesus. So, I added it all
up and—'

'And concluded that I had employed Justus to inform me about Jesus,'
interposed Marcellus. 'Well, your deduction is correct, though I must say
that Justus seems to know a great deal that he isn't confiding in me.'

'Have you told him why you are interested in Jesus?' Miriam studied his
eyes as she waited for his reply.

'Not fully,' admitted Marcellus, after some hesitation. 'But he is not
suspicious of my motives.'

'Perhaps if you would tell Justus exactly how you happened to become
interested in Jesus, he might be more free to talk,' suggested Miriam; and
when Marcellus failed to respond promptly, she added, 'I am full of curiosity
about that, myself.'

'That's a long story, Miriam,' muttered Marcellus, soberly.

'I have plenty of time,' she said. 'Tell me, Marcellus.'

'A year ago, I was in Jerusalem, on business—' he began, rather
uncertainly.

'But not buying homespun,' she interjected, when he paused.

'It was government business,' Marcellus went on. 'I was there only a few
days. During that time, there was a considerable stir over the arrest of this
Galilean on a charge of treason. I was present at the trial when he was
sentenced to death. It seemed clear that the man was innocent. The Procurator
himself said so. I had much difficulty putting the matter out of my mind.
Everything indicated that Jesus was a remarkable character. So, when I had
occasion to come to Jerusalem again, this spring, I decided to spend a few
days in Galilee, and learn something more about him.'

'What was it, about Jesus, that so deeply impressed you?' Miriam's tone
entreated full confidence.

'His apparently effortless courage, I think,' said Marcellus. 'They were
all arrayed against him—the Government, the Temple, the merchants, the
bankers, the influential voices, the money. Not a man spoke in his behalf.
His friends deserted him. And yet—in the face of cruel abuse—with
a lost cause, and certain death confronting him—he was utterly
fearless.' There was a thoughtful pause. 'It was impossible not to have a
deep respect for a person of that fibre. I have had an immense curiosity to
know what manner of man he was.' Marcellus made a little gesture to signify
that he had ended his explanation.

'That wasn't such a very long story, after all, Marcellus,' remarked
Miriam, intent upon her work. 'I wonder that you were so reluctant to tell
it. Did you, perhaps, omit to tell Justus some of the things you have just
told me?'

'No,' said Marcellus. 'I told him substantially the same thing.'

'But I thought you said you had not told him fully!'

'Well, what I have told you and Justus is sufficient, I think, to assure
you that my interest is sincere,' declared Marcellus. 'At least, Justus
appears to be satisfied. There are some stories about Jesus which he hints
at, but refuses to tell, because, he says, I am not ready to be told.
Yesterday he was lamenting that he had talked about that wedding-feast where
the guests thought the water tasted like wine.'

'You didn't believe it.' Miriam smiled briefly. 'I do not wonder. Perhaps
Justus is right. You weren't prepared for such a story.' A slow flush crept
up her cheeks, as she added, 'And how did he happen to be talking of Anna's
wedding?'

'We had been hoping to reach Cana in time to hear you sing,' said
Marcellus, brightly, glad to have the conversation diverted. 'Naturally that
led to comments about your sudden discovery of your inspiring voice. Justus
had told me previously that it had occurred on the day of a wedding-feast. I
pressed the subject, and he admitted that your strange experience had
happened on the same day.'

'The changing of water into wine—that was too much for you,' laughed
Miriam, sympathetically. 'I'm not surprised. However,' she went on,
seriously, 'you seem to have had no trouble believing in my discovery that I
could sing. It has completely transformed my life—my singing. It
instantly made another kind of person of me, Marcellus. I was morbid,
helpless, heart-sick, self-pitying, fretful, unreasonable. And now, as you
see, I am happy and contented.' She stirred him with a radiant smile, and
asked, softly, 'Is that so much easier to understand than the transformation
of water into wine?'

'May I infer, then, that there was a miracle performed in your case,
Miriam?' asked Marcellus.

'As you like,' she murmured, after some hesitation.

'I know you prefer not to discuss it,' he said, 'and I shall not pursue
you with questions. But—assuming that Jesus spoke a word that made you
sing—why did he not add a word that would give you power to walk? He
straightened little Jonathan's foot, they say.'

Miriam pushed her embroidery aside, folded her arms, and faced Marcellus
with a thoughtful frown.

'I cannot tell you how I came by my gift,' she said, 'but I do not regret
my lameness. Perhaps the people of Cana are more helped by the songs I
sing—from my cot—than they might be if I were physically well.
They all have their worries, agonies, defeats. If I had been made whole,
perhaps they would say, "Oh, it's easy enough for Miriam to sing and rejoice.
Miriam has no trouble. Why indeed shouldn't she sing?"'

'You're a brave girl!' declared Marcellus.

She shook her head.

'I do not feel that I merit much praise, Marcellus. There was a time when
my lameness was a great affliction, because I made it an affliction. It
afflicted not only me but my parents and all my friends. Now that it is not
an affliction, it has become a means of blessing. People are very tender in
their attitude toward me. They come to visit me. They bring me little gifts.
And, as Jesus said so frequently, it is more blessed to give than to receive,
I am fortunate, my friend. I live in an atmosphere of love. The people of
Cana frequently quarrel—but not with me. They are all at their
best—with me.' She flashed him a sudden smile. 'Am I not rich?'

Marcellus made no response, but impulsively laid an open hand on the edge
of the cot, and she gave him hers with the undeliberated trust of a little
child.

'Shall I tell you another strange story, Marcellus?' she asked, quietly.
'Of course Justus must have told you that after Jesus had done some amazing
things in our Galilean villages, the news spread throughout the country, and
great crowds followed him wherever he went; hundreds, thousands; followed
along for miles and miles and days and days! Men in the fields would drop
their hoes and run to the road as the long procession passed; and then they
too would join the throng, maybe to be gone from home for a week or more,
sleeping in the open, cold and hungry, completely carried away! Nothing
mattered—but to be close to Jesus! Well, one day, he was entering
Jericho. You haven't been to Jericho, have you? No—you came up through
Samaria. Jericho is one of the larger towns of Judea. As usual, a big crowd
followed him and the whole city rushed to the main thoroughfare as the word
spread that he had come. At that time, the Chief Revenue Officer of Jericho
was a man named Zacchaeus—'

'A Greek?' broke in Marcellus.

'No, he was an Israelite. His name was Zaccai, really; but being in the
employ of the Roman Government—' Miriam hesitated, coloured a little,
and Marcellus eased her embarrassment with an understanding grin.

'You needn't explain. These provincial officers usually alter their names
as soon as they begin to curry favour with their foreign masters. It's
fashionable now to have a Greek name; much smarter and safer than to have a
Roman name. I think I know something about this Zaccai (alias Zacchaeus)
without meeting him. He is a common type of rascally tax-collector; disloyal
to everybody—to the Government and to his own countrymen. We have them
in all of our provinces throughout the Empire. You can't have an empire,
Miriam, without scoundrels in the provincial seats of government. Think you
that Tiberius could govern far-away Hispania and Aquitania unless certain of
their men betrayed their own people? By no means! When the provincial
officers go straight, the Empire goes to pieces!... But—pardon the
interruption, Miriam, and the long speech. Tell me about Zacchaeus.'

'He was very wealthy. The people of Jericho feared and hated him. He had
spies at every keyhole listening for some rebellious whisper. Anyone
suspected of grumbling about the Government was assessed higher taxes, and if
he protested, he was charged with treason. Zacchaeus had built a beautiful
home on a knoll at the southern boundary of Jericho and lived like a prince.
There were landscaped gardens and lagoons—and scores of servants.'

'But no friends,' surmised Marcellus.

'Neither among the rich nor the poor; but Zacchaeus did not care. He had
contempt for their hatred. Well, on this day, having heard that Jesus was
proceeding toward Jericho, Zacchaeus came down into the city for a glimpse of
him. The waiting crowd was so dense that he abandoned his carriage and
struggled through the multitude to reach a spot where he might see. A
legionary, recognizing him, assisted him to climb up into the fork of a tree,
though this was forbidden to anyone else. Presently Jesus came down the
street with his large company, and stopped by the tree. He called to
Zacchaeus, addressing him by name, though they had never met, saying, "May I
dine with you to-day?"'

'And what did the people of Jericho think of that?' wondered
Marcellus.

'They were indignant, of course,' said Miriam. 'And Jesus' closest friends
were very unhappy. Zacchaeus had been so mean, and now Jesus had singled him
out for special attention. Many said, "This Galilean is no better than the
priests, who are ever truckling to the rich."'

'I suppose Zacchaeus made the most of their discomfiture,' commented
Marcellus.

'He was much flattered; hurried down from the tree and swaggered proudly
at Jesus' side as the procession moved on. And when they arrived at his
beautiful estate, he gave orders that the multitude might enter the grounds
and wait—'

'While he and his guest had dinner,' assisted Marcellus. 'They must have
resented that.'

'They were deeply offended; but they waited. And saw Jesus enter the great
marble house of Zacchaeus. After they had sat waiting for almost an hour,
Zacchaeus came out and beckoned to the people. They scrambled to their feet
and ran to hear what he might say. He was much disturbed. They could see that
something had happened to him. The haughtiness and arrogance was gone from
his face. Jesus stood a little way apart from him, sober and silent. The
great multitude stood waiting, every man holding his breath and staring at
this unfamiliar face of Zacchaeus. And then he spoke, humbly, brokenly. He
had decided, he said, to give half of all he owned to feed the poor. To those
whom he had defrauded, he would make abundant restitution.'

'But what had happened?' demanded Marcellus. 'What had Jesus said to
him?'

Miriam shook her head.

'Nobody knows,' she murmured; then, with averted, reminiscent eyes, she
added, half to herself: 'Maybe he didn't say anything at all. Perhaps he
looked Zacchaeus squarely in the eyes until the man saw, reflected there, the
image of the person he was meant to be.'

'Many people had that experience,' said Miriam, softly. 'When Jesus looked
directly into your eyes—' She broke off suddenly, and leaned far
forward to face him at close range. 'Marcellus,' she went on, in an
impressive tone lowered almost to a whisper, 'if you had ever met
Jesus—face to face—and he had looked into your eyes
until—until you couldn't get away—you would have no trouble
believing that he could do ANYTHING—ANYTHING HE PLEASED! If he said,
"Put down your crutches!" you would put them down. If he said, "Pay back the
money you have stolen!" you would pay it back.'

She closed her eyes and relaxed against the cushions. Her hand, still in
his, was trembling a little.

'And if he said, "Now you may sing for joy!"' ventured Marcellus, 'you
would sing?'

Miriam did not open her eyes, but a wisp of a smile curved her lips. After
a moment, she sat up with suddenly altered mood, reclaimed her hand, patted
her curls, and indicated that she was ready to talk of something far
afield.

'Tell me more about this Greek who worked for Benyosef,' she suggested.
'Evidently he too is interested in Jesus, or he wouldn't have had the
confidence of the men who meet one another there.'

'It will be easy to talk about Demetrius,' replied Marcellus, 'for he is
my closest friend. In appearance he is tall, athletic, handsome. In mind, he
is widely informed, with a sound knowledge of the classics. At heart, he is
loyal and courageous. As to his conduct, I have never known him to do an
unworthy thing.' Marcellus paused for a moment, and went on resolutely, 'When
I was seventeen, my father presented Demetrius to me—a birthday
gift.'

'But you said he is your closest friend!' exclaimed Miriam. 'How can that
be? Does he not resent being enslaved?'

'No man can be expected to like slavery, Miriam; but, once you have been a
slave, there is not very much you could do with your freedom if you achieved
it. I have offered Demetrius his liberty. He is free to come and go as he
likes.'

'You must have been a good master, Marcellus,' said Miriam, gently.

'Not always. At times—especially during the past year—I have
made Demetrius very unhappy. I was moody, restless, wretched, sick.'

'And why was that?' she asked. 'Would you like to tell me?'

'Not on this fair day,' rejoined Marcellus, soberly. 'Besides—I am
well now. I need not burden you with it.'

'As you please,' she consented. 'But—how did Demetrius happen to be
working in Benyosef's shop?'

'That is a long story, Miriam.'

'You and your long stories,' she put in, dryly.

Marcellus feigned a wince, and smiled.

'Briefly, then, we were in Athens. Through no fault of his, and in defence
of some helpless people, Demetrius engaged in combat with a man who held a
position of authority, but had not been advised that a blow delivered by this
Greek slave would stun an ox. It was a well-justified battle, albeit
one-sided and of short duration. But we thought it prudent for Demetrius to
lose no time increasing the distance between himself and the Athenian jail.
So he drifted to Jerusalem, and because he had some knowledge of carding and
spinning—'

'And how had he picked that up?' asked Miriam, busy again with her precise
stitches.

'At a weaver's shop in Athens. He was studying Aramaic under the weaver's
instructions, and made himself useful.'

'Was that where you got your Aramaic, Marcellus?'

'Yes.'

'Did you learn carding and spinning, too?'

'No,' laughed Marcellus. 'Just Aramaic—such as it is.'

'That was in preparation for this tour of Galilee, I think,' ventured
Miriam. 'And when you have learned all you wish to know about
Jesus—what then?'

'My plans are uncertain.' Marcellus frowned his perplexity. 'I must go
back to Rome, though my return is not urgent. Naturally I want to rejoin my
family and friends, but—'

Miriam took several little stitches before she looked up to ask, almost
inaudibly, 'But what?'

'Something tells me I am going to feel quite out of place in Rome,' he
confessed. 'I have been much impressed by what I have heard of your brave
Galilean's teachings about human relations. They seem so reasonable, so
sensible. If they become popular, we could have a new world. And, Miriam, we
must have a new world! Things can't go on this way! Not very much
longer!'

Miriam put down her work and gave him her full attention. She had not seen
him in such a serious mood before.

'During these past few days,' he went on, 'I have had a chance to look at
the world from a different angle. It wasn't that I had never stopped to think
about its injustice, its waste, its tragic unhappiness. But—out here in
this quiet country—I lie at night, looking up at the stars, and
suddenly I recall Rome!—its greed and gluttony at the top; its poverty
and degradation, growing more and more desperate all the way down to the
bottom of damp dungeons and galleys and quarries. And Rome rules the world!
The Emperor is a lunatic. The Prince Regent is a scoundrel. They rule the
world! Their armies control the wretched lives of millions of people!' He
paused, patted a damp brow, and muttered, 'Forgive me, my friend, for
haranguing you.'

'Would it not be wonderful,' exclaimed Miriam, 'if Jesus were on the
throne?'

'Impossible!' expostulated Marcellus.

'Maybe not,' said Miriam, quietly.

He studied her eyes, wondering if she were really serious, and was amazed
at her sober sincerity.

'You can't be in earnest!' he said. 'Besides, Jesus is dead.'

'Are you sure of that?' she asked, without looking up.

'I agree that his teachings are not dead, and something should be done to
carry them to as many people as can be reached!'

'Do you intend to tell your friends about him—when you go home?'

Marcellus sighed.

'They would think me crazy.'

'Would your father think you were crazy?'

'He would, indeed! My father is a just man of generous heart, but he has
contempt for people who interest themselves in religion. He would be
embarrassed—and annoyed, too—if I were to discuss these things
with our friends.'

'Might he not think it brave of you?'

'Brave? Not at all! He would think it was in very bad taste!'

Justus and Reuben were sauntering in from the vineyard, much occupied with
their low-voiced conversation.

'How long will you be here, Marcellus?' asked Miriam, with undisguised
concern. 'Shall I see you again; to-morrow, maybe?'

'Not to-morrow. We go to Capernaum to-morrow, Justus says. He wants me to
meet an old man named Nathanael. Ever heard of him?'

'Of course. You will like him. But you are coming back to Cana, aren't
you, before you return to Jerusalem?'

'I'd like to.'

'Please. Now you let me have a word with Justus, alone, will you?'

'Justus,' said Marcellus, as the men approached, 'I shall go back to the
village, and meet you there at your convenience.'

He offered his hand to Reuben, who clasped it cordially. Evidently Justus
had given Reuben a friendly account of him.

'Good-bye, Miriam,' he said, taking her hand. 'I shall see you next
week.'

'Good-bye, Marcellus,' she said, 'I shall be looking for you.' The bearded
Galileans stood by and watched them exchange a lingering look. Reuben frowned
a little, as if the situation perplexed him. The frown said that Reuben
didn't want his girl hurt. This Roman would go away and forget all about her,
but Miriam would remember.

'You're coming back this way, then,' said Reuben to Justus, as Marcellus
moved away.

'It seems so.' Justus grinned.

'Let me tell Naomi that you will tarry and break bread with us,' said
Reuben.

When they were alone, Miriam motioned Justus to sit down beside her.

'Why don't you tell Marcellus everything?' she asked. 'He is deeply
concerned. It seems he knows so little. He was in Jerusalem and attended the
trial at the Insula, heard Jesus sentenced to death, and knows that he was
crucified. And that is all. So far as he is aware, the story of Jesus ended
that day. Why haven't you told him?'

'I intend to, Miriam, when he is prepared to hear it. He would not believe
it if I were to tell him now.' Justus moved closer and lowered his voice. 'I
thought perhaps you would tell him.'

'I almost did. Then I wondered if you might not have some reason, unknown
to me, for keeping it a secret. I think Marcellus has a right to know
everything now. He thinks it such a pity that no plans have been made to
interest people in Jesus' teachings. Can't you tell him about the work they
are doing in Jerusalem, and Joppa, and Cæsarea? He hasn't the faintest idea
of what is going on!'

Miriam took several small, even stitches before she looked up into his
brooding eyes.

'Marcellus doesn't seem a bit foreign to me,' she said, softly.

* * * * *

Aimlessly sauntering back to the tent, Marcellus began sorting over the
homespun he had accumulated, wondering what he should do with it. Now that
there was no longer any reason for pretending an interest in such
merchandise, the articles already purchased were of no value to him. The
thought occurred—and gave him pleasure—that he might take them to
Miriam. She would be glad to see that they were distributed among the
poor.

He took up a black robe and held it against the light. It was of good wool
and well woven. He had paid twenty shekels for it. Fifteen would have been
enough, but the woman was poor. Besides, he had been trying to make a
favourable impression on Justus by dealing generously with his fellow
countrymen.

With nothing better to entertain him, Marcellus sat down on the edge of
his cot, with the robe in his hands, and indulged in some leisurely
theorizing on the indeterminate value of this garment. If you computed the
amount of skilled labour invested by the woman who wove it, on a basis of an
adequate wage per hour for such experienced workmanship, the robe was easily
worth thirty shekels. But not in Sepphoris, where she lived; for the local
market was not active. In Sepphoris it was worth twelve shekels. A stranger
would have been asked fifteen. Marcellus had made it worth twenty. Now it
wasn't worth anything!

He would give it to Miriam, who had no use for it, and it still wouldn't
be worth anything until she had presented it to someone who needed it. At
that juncture, the robe would begin to take on some value again, though just
how much would be difficult to estimate. If the man who received this
excellent robe should be inspired by it to wash his hands and face and mend
his torn sandals—thereby increasing public confidence in his character,
and enabling him to find employment at a better wage—the robe might
eventually turn out to be worth more than its original cost. If the man who
received it was a lazy scalawag, he might sell it for whatever it would
fetch, which wouldn't be much; for no person of any substance would want, at
any price, a garment that had been in the possession of this probably
verminous tramp. You could amuse yourself all day with speculations
concerning the shifting values of material things.

Marcellus had been doing an unusual amount of new thinking, these past few
days, on the subject of property. According to Justus, Jesus had had much to
say about a man's responsibility as a possessor of material things. Hoarded
things might easily become a menace; a mere fire-and-theft risk; a
breeding-ground for destructive insects; a source of worry. Men would have
plenty of anxieties, but there was no sense in accumulating worries over
THINGS! That kind of worry destroyed your character. Even an unused coat,
hanging in your closet—it wasn't merely a useless thing that did nobody
any good; it was an active agent of destruction to your life. And your LIFE
must be saved, at all costs. What would it advantage a man—Jesus had
demanded—if he were to gain the whole world, and lose his own life?

A bit bewildered by this statement, Marcellus had inquired:

'What did he mean, Justus, about the importance of saving your own life?
He didn't seem to be much worried about losing his! He could have saved it if
he had promised Pilate and the priests that he would go home and say nothing
more to the people about his beliefs.'

'Well, sir,' Justus had tried to explain, 'Jesus didn't mean quite the
same thing that you have in mind when he talked about a man's life. You see,
Jesus wasn't losing his life when they crucified him, but he would have lost
it if he had recanted and gone home. Do you understand what I mean,
Marcellus?'

'No, I can't say that I do. To speak that way about life is simply
trifling with the accepted definition of the word. I believe that when a man
is dead, he has lost his life; perhaps lost it in a good cause; perhaps still
living, for a little while, in the memory of those who believed in him and
cherished his friendship. But if our human speech is of any use at all, a man
who is dead has lost his life.'

'Not necessarily,' protested Justus. 'Not if his soul is still alive.
Jesus said we need have no fear of the things that kill the body. We should
fear only the things that kill the soul.' And when Marcellus had shrugged
impatiently, Justus had continued, 'The body isn't very important; just, a
vehicle; just a kit of tools—to serve the soul.' He had chuckled over
Marcellus's expression of disgust. 'You think that sounds crazy; don't you?'
he added, gently.

'Of course!' Marcellus had shrugged. 'And so do you!'

'I admit it's not easy to believe,' conceded Justus.

And then Marcellus had stopped in the road—they were on their way
from Sepphoris to Cana—and had delivered what for him was a long
speech.

'Justus,' he began, 'I must tell you candidly that while I am much
interested in the sensible philosophy of your dead friend Jesus, I hope you
will not want to report any more statements of that nature. I have a sincere
respect for this man's mind, and I don't wish to lose it.'

He had half-expected Justus to be glum over this rebuke, but the big
fellow had only grinned and nodded indulgently.

'I didn't mean to be offensive,' said Marcellus.

'I am not troubled,' said Justus, cordially. 'It was my fault. I was going
too fast for you; offering you meat when you should have milk.'

* * * * *

He tossed the black robe aside and examined a white shawl with a fringe.
He couldn't imagine his mother wearing it, but the woman who had made it had
been proud of her handiwork. He remembered how reluctant she was to see it go
out of her little house, down on the Samaritan border somewhere. She should
have been permitted to keep the shawl. It meant more to her than it could
possibly mean to anyone else. Such things should never be sold, or bought,
either. Marcellus recalled the feeling of self-reproach he had often
experienced at lavish banquets in Rome, where the wines were cooled with ice
that had been brought from the northern mountains by relays of runners who
sometimes died of exhaustion. No honest man could afford such wine. It had
cost too much.

Well, he would give all these garments to Miriam. She would put them to
good use. But wouldn't it be rather ungracious to let Miriam know that these
things, fabricated with great care by her own fellow countrymen, weren't
worth carrying away?

'But they are gifts,' he would say to Miriam. 'The people who receive them
will be advantaged.'

And then Miriam would have a right to say, though she probably wouldn't,
'How can they be gifts, Marcellus, when they are only useless things that you
don't want to be bothered with?'

And then, assuming that Miriam had said that, he could reply:

'But so far as the people are concerned who get these things, they would
be gifts, wouldn't you say?'

'No,' he thought she might reply, 'they would never be gifts. You see,
Marcellus—' And then she would go on to explain again how Jesus had
felt about gifts.

He pitched the heavy white shawl back on to the pile of homespun and
glanced up to see a tall, lean, rugged-faced fellow standing at the door of
the tent. The visitor grinned amiably and Marcellus invited him to come in.
He sat down on a camp-stool, crossed his long legs, and said his name was
Hariph.

'Doubtless you came to see Justus,' said Marcellus, cordially. 'He is at
Reuben's house. If you call this afternoon, I think he will be there.'

Hariph nodded, but made no move to go; sat slowly swinging his pendent
foot and nursing his elbows on his knee, while he candidly surveyed the
furniture in the tent, the heap of homespun, and the urbane stranger from
Rome.

'I think I have heard Justus speak of you,' said Marcellus, feeling that
if Hariph meant to stay awhile some conversation might be appropriate. 'You
are a potter, I believe. You make water-jars, and wine-jars, and things like
that.'

Hariph nodded and the grin widened a little.

'Tell me,' went on Marcellus, hopefully, 'is it customary to use the same
sort of jar either for wine or water?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' replied Hariph, with deliberate professional dignity.
'Many do that. Water or wine—it's all the same. Oil too. Same pot.'

'But I suppose that after you've had oil in a pot, you wouldn't want to
put wine in it,' observed Marcellus, sensibly enough, he thought.

'No, that wouldn't be so good,' agreed Hariph. 'The wine would taste of
oil.'

'The same thing might be true, I daresay, of water in a jar that had held
wine,' pursued Marcellus. 'The water might taste like wine.'

Hariph stopped swinging his foot and gazed squintingly toward the street,
the fine lines on his temple deepening. Marcellus surmised that the town
gossip was trying to decide whether it would be prudent to discuss the
matter. After some delay, he turned to his young host and gratified him by
saying:

'Did Justus tell you?'

'Yes.'

'Did you believe it?' asked Hariph.

'No,' replied Marcellus, firmly. 'I should be much interested in hearing
what you think about it.'

'Well, sir,' rejoined Hariph, 'we ran out of wine at the wedding of my
daughter Anna, and when Jesus came he made wine—out of water. I don't
know how. I just know that he did it.'

'Did you taste it?'

'Yes, sir. I never tasted wine like that—before or since.'

'What was it—a heavy, potent wine?'

'N-no, sir,' Hariph screwed up his face indecisively. 'It was of a
delicate flavour.'

'Red?' queried Marcellus.

'White,' remembered Hariph.

'White as water?'

'Yes, sir.' Hariph's eyes collided briefly with Marcellus's dry smile, and
drifted away. Nothing further was said for a long moment.

'I am told that everyone was very fond of Jesus,' remarked Marcellus.

'Indeed they were, sir!' responded Hariph. 'He came late, that day. You
should have seen them when he appeared; the shouts of greeting; many leaving
their places to crowd about him. It was so, wherever he went, sir. Nobody had
eyes for anyone else.'

'Had you ever kept wine in those jars, Hariph?' asked Marcellus.

'Yes, sir,' admitted Hariph.

Marcellus nodded his head slowly and grinned.

'Well, thank you for telling me,' he said. 'I was almost sure there must
be an explanation.' He rose, significantly. 'I am glad you called, Hariph.
Shall I tell Justus you will be back later?'

Hariph had not risen. His face was perplexed.

'If it was only that one thing, sir,' he said, quite unaffected by his
dismissal, 'if it had been only that one time—'

Marcellus sat down again and gave respectful attention.

'But from that day on, sir,' continued Hariph, deliberately, 'there were
many strange happenings.'

'So I have heard,' admitted Marcellus. 'Let me ask you: did you see any of
these mysterious things done, or did you just learn about them from others?
Strange stories always grow in the telling, you know.'

'Has anyone told you,' asked Hariph, 'how Jesus fed a crowd of five
thousand people when he had nothing but a little basketful of bread and a
couple of smoked fish?'

'No,' said Marcellus, eagerly. 'Tell me, please.'

'Perhaps Justus will tell you, if you ask him. He was there. He was closer
to it—when it happened.'

'Were you there, Hariph?'

'Yes, but I was rather far back in the crowd.'

'Well, tell me what you saw. I shall be much interested in your view of
it. Where did all this happen?'

'It wasn't so very long after our wedding. Jesus had begun going about
through the villages, talking with the people, and large crowds were
following him.'

'Because of what he said?' interposed Marcellus.

'Partly, but mostly because of the reports that he was healing all manner
of diseases, and giving blind men their sight, and—'

'Do you believe that—about the blind men?'

'Yes, sir!' declared Hariph. 'I saw one man who could see as well as you
can, sir.'

'Had you known him before?'

'No, sir,' confessed Hariph. 'But his neighbours said he had been blind
for years.'

'Did you know them—his neighbours?'

'No, sir. They were from down around Sychar.'

'That kind of testimony,' observed Marcellus, judicially, 'wouldn't get
very far in a court of law; but you must have some good reason for believing
it.... Well, go on, please, about the strange feast.'

'Always there were big crowds following him,' continued Hariph, undismayed
by the Roman's incredulity. 'And sometimes they weren't easy to handle.
Everybody wanted to be close enough to see these wonderful things happen; and
you never could tell when it would be. It's no small matter, sir,' Hariph
interrupted himself to comment, 'when one of your own neighbours, as you
might say, who had grown up with the other youngsters of his village, and had
worked at a carpenter's bench, takes to talking as nobody else had ever
talked; and stopping in the middle of a speech to point his finger at some
old man who might be standing in the front row, with his mouth open and both
hands cupped behind his ears, trying to hear—and suddenly the old man
yells "Ahhh!" and begins dancing up and down, shouting, "I can hear! I can
hear! I can hear!" And Jesus wouldn't have stopped talking: he would just
point at the man—and he could hear!'

'Did you ever see Jesus do that, Hariph?' demanded Marcellus.

'No, sir, but there were plenty who did; people whose word you could
trust, too!'

'Very well,' consented Marcellus, indulgently. 'Now tell me about the
feeding of the five thousand people. You say you saw that?'

'It was this way, sir. It all began over in Capernaum. A lot of strange
things had happened, and the news had spread abroad until a great crowd had
collected—a disorderly crowd it was; for nobody was trying to keep them
from pushing and jostling and tramping on one another.'

'It's a wonder they didn't call out the legionaries,' said Marcellus.
'There's a fort at Capernaum.'

'Yes, and many of the soldiers were there; but I don't think the priests
and elders of the city wanted the crowd to be kept in order. They probably
hoped something would happen, a bad accident, maybe, so that Jesus could be
arrested for disturbing the peace.'

'But didn't he have a few close friends who might have ordered the people
to cease this confusion?'

'Yes, sir, Jesus had many close friends. He named twelve of them to be
known as his disciples. But they had no authority to give orders to that big
crowd. They were really beside themselves to know what to do. Reuben and I
had gone over to Capernaum—like everybody else—to see what was
going on. When we arrived, the people were pushing and struggling in the
central plaza. I never was in such a press, sir! Men and women with sick
children in their arms, being jostled roughly in the swaying pack. Blind men.
Half-dead people on cots, carried by their friends. There were even lepers in
the crowd.' Hariph chuckled grimly. 'Nobody jostled THEM!'

'It's a wonder they weren't arrested,' put in Marcellus.

'Well, sir,' drawled Hariph, 'when a leper is out on his own, not even a
legionary is anxious to lay hands on him. And you couldn't blame the poor
lepers, sir. They hoped to be healed, too.'

'Yes, sir.... Well, when the crowd became unmanageable, Jesus began
retreating, down toward the shore. Several of his disciples had run on ahead
and engaged a boat. And before the people realized what was happening, Jesus
and his twelve closest friends were pulling away from the beach.'

'Wasn't that a rather heartless thing to do?' queried Marcellus.

'He had tried to talk to them, sir, but there was too much confusion. You
see, the people who crowded in about him hadn't come to hear him talk, but to
witness some strange thing. They wouldn't even give way to the cripples or
the blind or the very sick ones borne on cots. And then, too, Jesus had just
received bad news. One of his best friends, whom old Herod Antipas had thrown
into prison, had just been beheaded. Word of it came to Jesus while he was
trying to deal with that unruly mob. You can't blame him, sir, for wanting to
get away.'

'Quite to the contrary, Hariph!' declared Marcellus. 'It's gratifying to
hear that he could be puzzled about something. It was lucky that there was a
boat available. Was the crowd enraged?'

'Oh, they behaved each according to his own temper,' remembered Hariph.
'Some shook their fists and shouted imprecations. Some shook their heads and
turned away. Some wept. Some stood still and said nothing, as they watched
the boat growing smaller.'

'And what did you and Reuben do?'

'Well, sir, we decided to go home. And then somebody noticed that the boat
was veering toward the north. A great shout went up, and the people began
racing toward the beach. It seemed likely that the party in the boat was
making for some place up in the neighbourhood of Bethsaida.'

'How far was that?' inquired Marcellus.

'For the boat, about six miles. For the crowd, nearly nine. It was a hot
day and rough going. That country up there is mostly desert. But everybody
went, or so it seemed. It was a singular sight, sir, that long procession
stumbling over the stones and through the dried weeds. It was far past midday
when we found them.'

'Did Jesus seem annoyed when the crowd arrived?'

'No, just sorry,' murmured Hariph. 'His face was sad. The people were so
very tired. They weren't pushing one another—not after that trip!' He
laughed a little at the recollection.

'Did he chide them for the way they had behaved in Capernaum?'

'No, sir. He didn't say anything for a long time. The people flung
themselves down to rest. Justus told me afterwards that Simon urged Jesus to
talk to them, but he wanted to wait until all of them had arrived; for some
were carrying their sick, and were far behind. He didn't speak a word until
they were all there. And then he stood up and began to talk. He did not
reprove us for trailing him to this place, nor did he have aught to say of
the people's rudeness. He talked about all of us being neighbours. We were
all one family. Everyone was very quiet. There wasn't a sound—but the
voice of Jesus. And remember, sir; there were five thousand people in that
crowd!' Hariph's chin twitched involuntarily. He cleared his throat.
Marcellus studied his face soberly.

'I am not one to weep easily, sir,' he went on, huskily. 'But there was
something about those words that brought the tears. There we
were—nothing but a great crowd of little children—tired and worn
out—and here was a man—the only man there—and all the rest
of us nothing but quarrelsome, stingy, greedy, little children. His voice was
very calm, but—if you can believe me, sir—his words were as
ointment to our wounds. While he talked, I was saying to myself, "I have
never lived! I have never known how to live! This man has the words of life!"
It was as if God himself were speaking, sir! Everybody was much moved. Men's
faces were strained and their tears were flowing.' Hariph wiped his eyes with
the back of his hand.

'After a while,' he continued, brokenly, 'Jesus stopped talking and
motioned to some who had carried a sick man all that long way, and they
brought their burden and put it down at Jesus' feet. He said something to the
sick man. I could not hear what it was. And the sick man got up! And so did
everybody else—as if Jesus had suddenly pulled us all to our feet. And
everyone gasped with wonder!' Hariph grinned pensively and faced Marcellus
directly with childishly entreating eyes. 'Do you believe what I am telling
you, sir?'

'It is difficult, Hariph,' said Marcellus, gently. 'But I think you
believe what you are saying. Perhaps there is some explanation.'

'That may be, sir,' said Hariph, politely. 'And then there were many, many
others who went to Jesus to be healed of their diseases; not jostling to be
first, but waiting their turn.' He hesitated for a moment, embarrassed. 'But
I shall not weary you with that,' he went on, 'seeing you do not
believe.'

'You were going to tell me how he fed them,' prompted Marcellus.

'Yes, sir. It was growing late in the afternoon. I had been so moved by
the things I had heard and seen that I had not thought of being hungry.
Reuben and I, knowing there would be nothing out there to eat, had stopped at
a market-booth in Capernaum and had bought some bread and cured fish. In any
other kind of crowd, we would have eaten our luncheon. But now that we had
begun to feel hungry, I was ashamed to eat what I had before the faces of the
men about me; for, as I have said, Jesus had been talking about us all being
of one family, and how we ought to share what we had with one another. I
should have been willing to divide with the man next to me; but I hadn't much
more than enough for myself. So—I didn't eat; nor did Reuben.'

'I daresay there were plenty of men in the crowd who were faced with the
same dilemma,' surmised Marcellus.

'Well, the disciples were around Jesus telling him he had better dismiss
the people, so they could go to the little villages and buy food. Justus told
me afterwards that Jesus only shook his head and told them that the people
would be fed. They were much bewildered and worried. There was a small boy,
sitting very close and overhearing this talk. He had a little basket, his own
lunch, not very much; just enough to feed a boy. He went to Jesus with his
basket and said he was willing to share what he had.'

Marcellus's eyes lighted, and he leaned forward attentively.

'Go on!' he demanded. 'This is wonderful.'

'Yes, it really was wonderful, sir. Jesus took the basket and held it up
for the people to see. And then he told how the boy wanted to share his food
with all the people. And he looked up and thanked God for the little boy's
gift. It was very, very quiet, sir. Then he began breaking the small loaves
into bits, and the fish he tore into little shreds; and he gave these
fragments to his disciples and told them to feed the people.'

'Did the crowd laugh?' asked Marcellus.

'Well, no, sir. We didn't laugh, although almost everyone smiled over such
a big crowd being fed on almost nothing, as you might say. As I told you, I
had been ashamed to bring out the food I had, and now I was ashamed not to;
so I unwrapped my bread and fish, and broke off a piece, and offered it to
the man next to me.'

'Wonderful!' shouted Marcellus. 'Was he glad to get it?'

'He had some of his own,' said Hariph, adding, quickly, 'but there were
plenty of people who hadn't brought any food along with them, sir. And
everyone was fed, that day! After it was over, they gathered up a dozen
basketfuls of fragments, left over.'

'It sounds as if some other people, besides you and Reuben, had had the
forethought to bring some provisions along,' speculated Marcellus. 'They
probably wouldn't have gone out into the desert with empty baskets. This is
really a marvellous story, Hariph!'

'You believe it, sir?' Hariph was happily surprised.

'Indeed I do! And I believe it was a miracle! Jesus had inspired those
stingy, selfish people to be decent to one another! It takes a truly great
man to make one harmonious family out of a crowd like that! I can't
understand the healing, Hariph; but I believe in the feeding! And I'm glad
you wanted to tell me!'

They were on the way from Cana to Capernaum. All day their
narrow road had been gaining altitude, not without occasional dips into
shallow valleys, but tending upwards toward a lofty plateau where the
olive-green terrain met an azure sky set with masses of motionless white
clouds.

It had been a fatiguing journey, with many pauses for rest, and as the
shadows slanted farther to the east, the two men trudged the steepening track
in silence, leaving the little pack-train far behind. They were nearing the
top now. Justus had promised that they would make camp in the lee of the
great rock they had sighted two hours ago. There was a cool spring, he said,
and plenty of forage. He hoped they would find the spot untenanted. Yes, he
knew the place well. He had camped there many times. There was a splendid
view. Jesus had loved it.

Throughout this tour of Galilee, Marcellus had paid very little attention
to the physical characteristics of the province. Until now the landscape had
been unremarkable, and he had been fully preoccupied by the strange business
that had brought him here. Marcellus had but one interest in this otherwise
undistinguished land of rock-strewn fields, tiny vineyards, and apathetic
villages drowsing in the dust around an ancient well. He was concerned only
about a mysterious man who had walked these winding roads, a little while
ago, with crowds of thousands surging about him.

It was not easy to-day, on this sleepy old highway, to picture either the
number or the temper of that multitude. The people must have come from long
distances, most of them, for this country was not thickly populated. Nor was
it easy to imagine the confusion, the jostling, the shouting. Such Galileans
as Marcellus had seen were not emotional, not responsive; rather stolid,
indeed.

That weary, weather-beaten woman, leaning on her hoe, in the frowsy little
garden they had just passed—had she, too, bounded out of her kitchen,
leaving their noonday pottage on the fire, to join in that curious throng?
This bearded man in the meadows—her husband, obviously; now sluggishly
mowing wisps of grass with his great-grandfather's scythe—had he run
panting to the edge of the crowd, trying to scramble through the sweating
pack for a glimpse of the face of Jesus?

It was almost incredible that this silent, solemn, stodgy province could
ever have been haled out of its age-long lethargy and stirred to such a pitch
of excitement. Even Justus, looking back upon it all, could only shake his
shaggy head and mutter that the whole affair was quite beyond comprehension.
You could think what you liked about the miracles, reflected Justus, soberly:
many of the people were hysterical and had reported all manner of strange
occurrences, some of which had never been satisfactorily confirmed. The air
had been full of wild rumours, Justus said. A few Nazarenes had been quoted
as remembering that when Jesus was a lad, at play with them, he had fashioned
birds of clay, and the birds had come to life and had flown away. You could
hear such tales by the score, and they had confused the public's estimate of
Jesus, making him seem a mountebank in the opinion of many intelligent
people.

But these passionate throngs of thousands who followed, day after day,
indifferent to their hunger and discomfort—all Galilee knew that this
was true because all Galilee had participated. You might have good reasons
for doubting the validity of some of these miracle stories, but you couldn't
doubt this one! Obscure little Galilee, so slow and stupid that its bucolic
habits and uncouth dialect were stock jokes in Judea, had suddenly come
alive! Its dull work was abandoned. Everybody talking at once! Everybody
shouting questions which nobody tried to answer! Camels were left standing in
their harness, hitched to water-wheels. Shuttles were left, midway of the
open warp. Tools lay scattered on the floor of the carpenter shop. Ploughs
stopped in the furrow. Fires burned out in the brick-kiln. Everybody took to
the road, on foot, on donkeys, on carts, on crutches. Helpless invalids who
couldn't be left were bundled up on stretchers and carried along. Nothing
mattered but to follow the young man who looked into your eyes and made you
well—or ashamed—or tightened your throat with longing for his
calm strength and flower-like purity.

Now the bright light had gone out. The great crowds had scattered. The
inspired young man was dead. Galilee had gone back to sleep. It was a lonely
land. Perhaps the Galileans themselves were now conscious of its loneliness,
after having briefly experienced this unprecedented activity.

Marcellus wished he knew how much of Jesus' influence still remained
alive. Of course, you could depend upon a few of them—those who had
known him best and owed him much—to remember and remember until they
died; people like Miriam. Or were there any more like Miriam? Justus had said
that some of these Galileans had been completely transformed, almost as if
they had been born again. Certain men of low estate had learned new
occupations. Certain beggars had become productive. A few publicans had
become respected citizens. Women who had been known as common scolds were
going about doing deeds of kindness. But perhaps the majority had been unable
to hold on to their resolutions. He must press Justus for some more
information about that.

Now they had arrived at the top of the terrain, every step adding depth to
the view. Far to the north lay a range of snow-capped mountains. A few steps
farther on, and the distant turrets and domes of a modern city glistened in
the declining sun. There was no need to inquire its name: it had to be
Tiberias. Marcellus lengthened his stride to keep pace with Justus, who was
moving swiftly toward the northern rim, turning his head from side to side,
and peering intently in all directions, as if he had expected to meet a
friend up here.

Suddenly the whole breath-taking panorama was spread before them and
Marcellus had his first sight of the deep-blue lake that had figured so much
in his guide's conversation. It had been around this little sea that Jesus
had spent most of his days. Justus dropped wearily to the ground, folded his
arms, and sat in silent contemplation of the scene. Marcellus, a little way
apart, reclined on his elbows. Far in the distance was a slanting sail. All
along the shore-line, flat-roofed villages straggled down to the water's
edge.

After a long interval, Marcellus stirred.

'So—this is the Sea of Galilee!' he said, half to himself.

Justus nodded slowly. Presently he pointed to the farthest settlement that
could be seen.

'Capernaum,' he said. 'Eight miles.'

'I daresay this lake has some tender memories for you, Justus,' remarked
Marcellus. 'Tell me,' he went on, with a slow gesture that swept the
landscape, 'has the general behaviour of those people been greatly altered by
the career of Jesus?'

'It is hard to say,' replied Justus. 'They do not talk much about it. They
are afraid. The Roman fort is close by. One could easily get into trouble by
asking questions. One only knows what has happened in the lives of one's
friends. I expect to visit some of them while we are here.'

'Will I see them?' inquired Marcellus, doubtfully.

'Not many,' said Justus, frankly. 'You will see old Bartholomew, as I told
you. He has a story I want you to hear. Bartholomew will not be afraid to
talk to you, after I assure him it will be safe.' He turned about and faced
Marcellus with a reminiscent smile. 'You might be interested in knowing how
Jesus and Bartholomew first met. The old man was sitting out in his little
fig orchard, one morning, when Jesus and Philip passed the house. And Jesus
cheerily waved a hand and said, "Peace be upon you, Nathanael!"'

'I thought his name was Bartholomew,' put in Marcellus.

'That's the amusing part of it,' chuckled Justus. 'It is not customary
with us to call venerable men by their given names. I don't suppose old
Bartholomew had heard himself called Nathanael for at least two-score years.
And here was this young stranger taking an immense liberty with him.'

'Was he offended?' asked Marcellus, with a grin.

'Well, perhaps not seriously offended, but certainly astonished. He called
Jesus to come to him, perhaps intending to take him to task for what looked
like a bit of impudence. Philip told me the story. He said that old
Bartholomew was looking stern as he waited for Jesus to approach. Then his
eyes widened and softened; and he smiled and said, "You knew my name." "Yes,"
replied Jesus, "and because it means 'God-given' it is fitting, for you are
an Israelite of high integrity."'

'That should have pleased the old man,' observed Marcellus.

'It did,' said Justus soberly. 'It made him a disciple.'

'You mean, he—followed after Jesus?'

'Yes. There was something strange about that. The old man had long since
taken to his chair in the garden, thinking his active days were ended. But he
got up and went along with Jesus—and he rarely left his side for nearly
three years.'

'His vigour was restored?' Marcellus's face showed disbelief.

'No, he was still an old man. It was hard work for him to keep up with the
others. He got very weary indeed, and he wheezed and panted like any other
hard-pressed old man—'

'But he came along,' assisted Marcellus.

'Yes—Bartholomew came along. No one else would have ventured to call
him Nathanael—but Jesus did, invariably. And Bartholomew liked it.'

'Perhaps Jesus did that to keep the old man going,' suggested Marcellus.
'Maybe it made him feel younger.'

'Well, it wasn't only Bartholomew who felt younger and immature in the
company of Jesus.' Justus frowned and stroked his beard, his habit when
groping for an elusive memory. 'With the exception of John, all the close
friends and disciples of Jesus were older than he; but he was our senior, by
years and years. Sometimes, after we had slipped away for an hour's rest, he
would say, "Come, children: we must be on our way." But no one smiled, or
thought it peculiar.'

'He seemed remote?' asked Marcellus.

Justus deliberately pondered a reply, then shook his head.

'No, not remote. He was companionable. You wanted to get closer to him, as
if for protection. I think that's why the people were always crowding about
him, until he hardly had room to move.'

'That must have put him under a great strain,' said Marcellus. 'Didn't he
ever seem weary?'

'Very, very weary!' remembered Justus. 'But he never protested. Sometimes
men would brace a shoulder against the crowd and push their way in, knocking
others off their feet, but I can't recall that he ever rebuked anyone for it.
... Marcellus, did you ever see a flock of little chickens climbing over one
another to get under the hen's wings? Well, the hen doesn't seem to notice;
just holds out her feathers, and lets them scramble in. That was his
attitude. And that was our relation to him.'

'Very strange!' murmured Marcellus, abstractedly. 'But I think—I
understand—what you mean,' he added, as from a distance.

'You couldn't!' declared Justus. 'You think you understand, but you would
have had to know Jesus to comprehend what I am saying. Some of us were old
enough to have been his father, but we were just—just little chickens!
Take Simon, for example. Simon was always the leader among the disciples. I
hope you meet him when you go back to Jerusalem. Simon is a very forceful,
capable man. Whenever Jesus happened to be absent from us, for an hour, Simon
was far and away the big man of the company, everyone deferring to him.
But—when Jesus would rejoin us'—Justus grinned, pursed his lips,
and slowly shook his head—'Simon was just a little boy; just a humble,
helpless little boy! A little chicken!'

'And Bartholomew—he was a little chicken, too?'

'Well,' deliberated Justus, 'not quite in the same way, perhaps.
Bartholomew never expressed his opinions so freely as Simon, when Jesus was
away from us. He didn't have quite so far to drop—as Simon. It was
amazing how much fatigue the old fellow could endure. He attended the last
supper they had together on the night Jesus was betrayed. But when the news
came in that the Master had been arrested, it was too much for Bartholomew.
He was very sick. They put him to bed. By the time he recovered—it was
all over.' Justus closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and an expression of pain
swept his face. 'It was all over,' his lips repeated, soundlessly.

'He must be quite infirm, by this time,' said Marcellus, anxious to lift
the gloom.

'About the same,' said Justus. 'Not much older. Not much weaker.' He
grinned a little. 'Bartholomew has a queer idea now. He thinks he may never
die. He sits all day in the fig orchard, when the weather is fair.'

Justus had been gazing down at the lake. Now he turned his eyes quickly
towards Marcellus and stared into his face. After a rather tense moment,
which left Marcellus somewhat bewildered, Justus returned his gaze to the
lake.

'That is exactly what old Bartholomew does,' he murmured. 'All day long.
He sits, watching the road.'

'Old men get strange fancies,' commented Marcellus.

'You don't have to be old,' said Justus, 'to get strange fancies.'

The little caravan, which had lagged on the last steep climb, now shuffled
over the shoulder of the hill. Jonathan came running across, and snuggled
down beside Justus.

'That's Miriam's work,' declared Justus. 'She had a long talk with
Jonathan yesterday. I think we need not worry about him now.'

'That conversation must have been worth hearing,' said Marcellus.

'Jonathan didn't seem inclined to talk about it,' said Justus, 'but he was
deeply impressed. You noticed how quiet he was, last night.'

'I doubt whether there is another young woman—of Miriam's
sort—in the whole world!' announced Marcellus, soberly.

'There is a widow in Capernaum,' said Justus. 'Perhaps you may have an
opportunity to meet her. She spends all her time with the very poor who have
sickness in their houses. Her name is Lydia. You might be interested in her
story.'

'Tell me, please.' Marcellus sat up and gave attention.

'Lydia lost her husband, Ahira, while still quite a young woman. I do not
know how it is in your country, but with us the predicament of a young widow
is serious. She goes into retirement. Lydia was one of the most beautiful
girls in Capernaum, so everyone said. Ahira had been a man of considerable
wealth, and their home was in keeping with his fortune. Shortly after his
death, Lydia became grievously afflicted with an ailment peculiar to women,
and gradually declined until her beauty faded. Her family was most
sympathetic. At great expense, they summoned the best physicians. They
carried her to many healing springs. But nothing availed to check her wasting
disease. The time came when it was with great difficulty that she could move
about in her room. And now the whole country began to be stirred by reports
of strange things that Jesus had done for many sick people.' Justus
hesitated, seemingly in doubt how to proceed with the story. Marcellus waited
with mounting curiosity.

'I think I had better tell you,' continued Justus, 'that it wasn't always
easy for substantial people to have an interview with Jesus. As for the poor,
they had no caste to lose. Most of them were in the habit of begging favours,
and were not reticent about crowding in wherever they thought it might be to
their advantage. But men and women in better circumstances—no matter
how much they wanted to see Jesus—found it very hard to shed their
natural pride and push into that clamorous multitude. Jesus was always sorry
about this. Often and often, he consented to talk alone with important men,
late in the night, when he sorely needed his rest.'

'Men who wanted to be privately cured of something?' asked Marcellus.

'Doubtless, but I know of some cases in which very influential men, who
had no malady at all, invited Jesus into their homes for a long conference.
Once we waited at the gate of Nicodemus ben Gorion, the most widely known
lawyer of this region, until the cocks crew in the early morning. And there
was nothing the matter with Nicodemus; at least, nothing physical.'

'Do you suppose he was warning Jesus to cease his work?' wondered
Marcellus.

'No. Nicodemus came out with him, that night, as far as the gate. Jesus
was talking earnestly to him. When they parted, each man laid a hand on the
other's shoulder. We only do that with social equals. Well—as I had
meant to say—it would have taken a lot of courage for a gently bred
woman of means to have invaded the crowd that thronged about Jesus.'

'That's quite understandable,' agreed Marcellus.

'One day, when Jesus was speaking in the public plaza in Capernaum, a
well-to-do man named Jairus pushed his way through the crowd. The people made
way for him when someone spoke his name. It was plain to see that he was
greatly excited. He went directly to Jesus and said that his little daughter
was sick unto death. Would Jesus come at once? Without asking any questions,
Jesus consented, and they started down the principal street, the crowd
growing larger as they went. When they passed Lydia's house, she watched them
from the window, and saw Jairus, whom she knew, walking at Jesus' side.'

'As it happened, it was in the neighbourhood of Lydia's house that I
joined the crowd. I had come with a message for Simon, who had serious
illness at home. His wife's mother was sick, and had become suddenly worse. I
was as close to Jesus as I am to you when this thing happened. I don't
suppose Lydia would have attempted it if she hadn't seen Jairus in the
throng. That must have given her confidence. Summoning all her poor strength,
she ran down the steps and into that crowd, desperately forced her way
through, and struggled on until she was almost at Jesus' side. Then, her
courage must have failed her; for, instead of trying to speak to him, she
reached out and touched his robe. I think she was frightened at her own
audacity. She turned quickly and began forcing her way out.'

'Why didn't some of you call Jesus' attention to her?' asked
Marcellus.

'Well,' said Justus defensively, 'there was a great deal of confusion, and
it all happened so quickly—and then she was gone. But, instantly, Jesus
stopped and turned about. "Who touched me?" he demanded.'

'Simon and Philip reminded him that there were so many crowding about.
Almost any of them might have crushed against him. But he wasn't satisfied
with that. And while he stood there, questioning them, we heard this woman's
shrill cry. They opened the way for her to come to him. It must have been a
very trying moment for Lydia. She had lived such a sheltered life. The crowd
grew suddenly quiet.'

Justus's voice was husky as he recalled the scene.

'I saw many pathetic sights, through those days,' he continued, 'but none
more moving. Lydia came slowly, with her head bowed and her hands over her
eyes. She knelt on the ground before Jesus and confessed that she was the one
who had touched him. Then she lifted her eyes, with the tears running down
her cheeks, and cried, "Master! I have been healed of my affliction!"'

Overcome by his emotions, Justus stopped to wipe his eyes on his sleeve.
Steadying his voice with an effort, he went on:

'Everyone was deeply touched. The people were all in tears. Jairus was
weeping like a child. Even Jesus, who was always well controlled, was so
moved that his eyes were swimming as he looked down into Lydia's face.
Marcellus—that woman gazed up at him as if she were staring into a
blinding sunshine. Her body was shaking with sobs, but her face was
enraptured! It was beautiful!'

'Please go on,' insisted Marcellus, when Justus fell silent.

'It was a very tender moment,' he said, thickly. 'Jesus gave her both of
his hands and drew her gently to her feet; and then, as if he were speaking
to a tearful little child, he said, "Be comforted, my daughter, and go in
peace. Your faith has made you whole."'

'That is the most beautiful story I ever heard, Justus,' said Marcellus,
soberly.

'I hardly know why I told you,' muttered Justus. 'I've no reason to think
you could believe that Lydia was cured of her malady merely by touching
Jesus' robe.'

He sat waiting, with an almost wistful interest, for a further comment
from Marcellus. It was one thing to say of a narrative that it was a
beautiful story; it was quite another thing to concede its veracity.
Marcellus had been adept in contriving common-sense explanations of these
Galilean mysteries. The story of Lydia's healing had obviously moved him, but
doubtless he would come forward presently with an attempt to solve the
problem on natural grounds. His anticipated argument was so long in coming
that Justus searched his face intently, astonished at its gravity. He was
still more astounded when Marcellus replied, in a tone of deep sincerity:

'Justus, I believe every word of it!'

* * * * *

Notwithstanding his weariness, Marcellus had much difficulty in going to
sleep that night. Justus's story about Lydia had revived the memory of his
own strange experiences with the robe. It had been a long time since he had
examined his mind in respect to these occurrences.

He had invented reasons for the amazing effects the robe had wrought in
his own case. His explanation was by no means conclusive or satisfying, but
he had adopted it as less troublesome than a downright admission that the
robe was haunted.

The case, viewed rationally, began with the fact that he had had a very
serious emotional shock. The sight of a crucifixion was enough to leave scars
on any decent man's soul. To have actually conducted a crucifixion was
immeasurably worse. And to have crucified an innocent man made the whole
affair a shameful crime. The memory of it would be an interminable torture,
painful as a physical wound. Not much wonder that he had been so depressed
that all his mental processes had been thrown into disarray.

There was that night at the Insula when he had drunkenly consented to put
on the blood-stained robe. Apparently his weighted remorse over the day's
tragedy had reached a stage where it could not endure this one more perfidy.
A wave of revulsion had swept through him, as if some punitive power,
resident in the robe, had avenged the outrage.

For a long time Marcellus had suffered of that obsession. The robe was
possessed! He shuddered when he thought of it. The robe had become the symbol
of his crime and shame.

Then had come his remarkable recovery, that afternoon in Athens. His
mental affliction had reached a moment of crisis. He could bear it no longer.
The only way out was by suicide. And at that critical juncture, the robe had
stayed his hand.

For a few hours thereafter, Marcellus had been completely mystified. When
he tried to analyse the uncanny thing that had happened to him, his mind
refused to work on it. Indeed, he had been so ecstatic over his release from
the bondage of his melancholia that he was in no mood to examine the nature
of his redemption. Such brief and shallow reasoning as he put upon it was as
futile as an attempt to evaluate some fantastic, half-forgotten dream.

The time came when he could explain his recovery even as he had explained
his collapse. The robe had been a focal point of interest on both occasions.
But—did the robe actually have anything to do with it? Wasn't it all
subjective?

The explanation seemed sound and practical. His mind had been deeply
wounded, but now it had healed. Evidently the hour had arrived, that
afternoon in the cottage at the inn, when his harassed mind determined to
overthrow the torturing obsession. It was a reasonable deduction, he felt.
Nature was always in revolt against things that thwarted her blind but
orderly processes. For many years a tree might wage a slow and silent warfare
against an encumbering wall, without making any visible progress. One day the
wall would topple—not because the tree had suddenly laid hold upon some
supernormal energy, but because its patient work of self-defence and
self-release had reached fulfilment. The long-imprisoned tree had freed
itself. Nature had had her way.

Marcellus had contented himself with this explanation. He had liked the
analogy of the tree and the wall; had liked it so well that he had set it to
work on other phases of his problem. You had had a peculiar experience that
had forced you to a belief in the supernatural. But your mind—given a
chance to resume its orderly functions—would begin to resist that
untenable thought. It wasn't natural for a healthy mind to be stultified by
alleged supernatural forces. No matter how convincing the evidences of
supernatural power, one's mind would proceed—automatically,
involuntarily—to push this intrusive concept away, as a tree-root
pushes against an offending wall.

Until long after midnight, Marcellus lay on his cot, wide awake, re-
examining his own rationalizings about the robe in the light of Lydia's
experience, and getting nowhere with it. He had impulsively told Justus that
he believed the story. There was no reason to doubt the good man's integrity;
but, surely, there must be a reasonable explanation. Maybe Lydia's malady had
run its course, that day, needing only this moment of high emotional stress
to effect her release. He silently repeated this over and over, trying to
make it sound reasonable; trying to make it hold good. Then he agreed with
himself that his theory was nonsense, and drifted off to sleep.

Rousing with a start, Marcellus cautiously raised himself on one elbow and
peered out through the open tent-door. In the grey-blue, pre-dawn twilight he
dimly saw the figure of a tall, powerfully built, bearded man. It was much
too dark to discern the intruder's features.

His attitude did not denote furtiveness. He stood erect, apparently
attempting to identify the occupants of the tent, and probably finding it
impossible. Presently he moved away.

As soon as he had disappeared, Marcellus arose, quietly strapped his
sandals, buckled his belt, and slipped out. There had been nothing sinister
in this unexpected visitation. Obviously the man was neither a thief nor an
ordinary prowler. He had not acted as if he had plans to molest the camp. It
was quite conceivable that he had arranged to meet Justus up here and had
been delayed. Finding the campers still asleep, he had probably decided to
wait awhile before making himself known.

This seemed a reasonable surmise, for upon their arrival at the hilltop
yesterday afternoon Justus had scrutinized the terrain as if expecting to be
joined here by some acquaintance, though that was a habit of his—always
scanning the landscape whenever an elevation presented a farther view; always
peering down cross-roads; always turning about with a start whenever a door
opened behind him.

It was still too dark to explore the terrain in quest of the mysterious
visitor. Marcellus walked slowly toward the northern rim of the narrow
plateau where he and Justus had sat. Low in the east, beyond the impenetrable
darkness that mapped the lake, the blue was beginning to fade out of the
grey. Now the grey was dissolving on the horizon and a long, slim ribbon of
gleaming white appeared. Outspread lambent fingers reached up high, higher,
higher into the dome from beyond a dazzling, snow-crowned mountain. Now the
snow was touched with streaks of gold. Marcellus sat down to watch the dawn
arrive.

At not more than a stadium's distance, also facing the sunrise, sat the
unidentified wayfarer, not yet aware that he was observed. Apparently
absorbed by the pageant in the east, he sat motionless with his long arms
hugging his knees. As the light increased, Marcellus noted that the man was
shabbily dressed and had no pack; undoubtedly a local resident; a fisherman,
perhaps, for the uncouth knitted cap, drawn far down over his ears, was an
identifying headgear affected by sailors.

With no wish to spy on the fellow, Marcellus noisily cleared his throat.
The stranger slowly turned his head, then arose nimbly and approached.
Halting, he waited for the Roman to speak first.

'Who are you?' asked Marcellus. 'And what do you want?'

The newcomer ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled broadly. Then
he tugged off the wretched cap from a swirl of tousled hair.

'This disguise,' he chuckled, 'is better than I had thought.'

'Demetrius!' Marcellus leaped to his feet and they grasped each other's
hands. 'Demetrius!—how did you find me? Have you been in trouble? Are
you being pursued? Where did you come by such shabby clothes? Are you
hungry?'

'I learned yesterday afternoon in Cana that you were on the way to
Capernaum. I have not been in much trouble, and am not now pursued. The
clothes'—Demetrius held up his patched sleeves, and grinned—'are
they not befitting to a vagrant? I had plenty to eat, last night. Your
donkey-boy helped me to my supper and lent me a rug.'

'Why didn't you make yourself known?' asked Marcellus, reproachfully.

'I wanted to see you alone, sir, before encountering Justus.'

'Proceed, then,' urged Marcellus, 'and tell me as much as you can. He will
be waking presently.'

'Stephanos told you of my flight from Jerusalem—'

'Have you been back there?' interrupted Marcellus.

'No, sir; but I contrived to send Stephanos a message, and he wrote me
fully about your meeting.' Demetrius surveyed his master from head to foot.
'You are looking fit, sir, though you've lost a pound or two.'

'Walking,' explained Marcellus. 'Good for the torso; bad for the feet.
Keep on with your story now. We haven't much time.'

Demetrius tried to make it brief. He had fled to Joppa, hoping to see his
master when his ship came in. He had been hungry and shelterless for a few
days, vainly seeking work on the docks.

'One morning I saw an old man dragging a huge parcel of green hides along
the wharf,' he went on. 'I was so desperate for employment that I shouldered
the reeking pelts and carried them to the street.' The old Jew trotted
alongside protesting. When I put the loathsome burden down, he offered me two
farthings. I refused, saying he had not engaged me. He then asked what I
would take to carry the hides to his tannery, a half-mile up the street that
fronted the beach. I said I would do it for my dinner.'

'Not so many details, Demetrius!' insisted Marcellus, impatiently. 'Get on
with it!'

'These details are important, sir. The old man wanted to know what part of
Samaria I had come from. Perhaps you have discovered that our Aramaic is
loaded with Samaritan dialect. His people had lived in Samaria. His name was
Simon. He talked freely and cordially, asking many questions. I told him I
had worked for old Benjamin in Athens, which pleased him, for he knew about
Benjamin. Then I confided that I had worked for Benyosef in Jerusalem. He was
delighted. At his house, hard by the tannery, he bade me bathe and provided
me with clean clothing.' Demetrius grinned at his patches. 'This is it,' he
said.

'You shall have something better,' said Marcellus. 'I am a clothing
merchant. I have everything. Too, too much of everything. So—what about
this old Simon?'

'He became interested in me because I had worked for Benyosef, and asked
me if I were one of them, and I said I was.' Demetrius studied Marcellus's
face. 'Do you understand what I mean, sir?' he asked, wistfully.

Marcellus nodded, rather uncertainly.

'Are you, really—one of them?' he inquired.

'I am trying to be, sir,' responded Demetrius. 'It isn't easy. One is not
allowed to fight, you know. You just have to take it—the way he
did.'

'That part of it,' went on Demetrius, 'is always going to be difficult;
too difficult, I fear. I promised Stephanos, that morning when I left
Jerusalem, that I would do my best to obey the injunctions, and in less than
an hour I had broken my word. Simon Peter—he is the chief of the
disciples, the one they call "The Big Fisherman"—he baptised me, just
before dawn, in the presence of all the others in Benyosef's shop, and,
sir—'

'Baptized you?' Marcellus's perplexity was so amusing that Demetrius was
forced to smile, in spite of his seriousness.

'Water,' he explained. 'They pour it on you, or put you in it, whichever
is more convenient—and announce that you are now clean, in Jesus' name.
That means you're one of them, and you're expected to follow Jesus'
teachings.' Demetrius's eyes clouded and he shook his head self-reproachfully
as he added, 'I was in a fight before my hair was dry.'

Marcellus tried to match his slave's remorseful mood, but his grin was
already out of control.

'What happened?' he asked, suppressing a chuckle.

Demetrius glumly confessed his misdemeanour. The legionaries had a habit
of stopping unarmed citizens along the road, compelling them to shoulder
their packs. A great hulk of a soldier had demanded this service of Demetrius
and he had refused to obey. Then there was the savage thrust of a lance.
Demetrius had stepped out of the way, and the legionary had drawn up for
another onslaught.

'In taking the lance from him,' continued Demetrius, 'I broke it.'

'Over his head, I suspect,' accused Marcellus.

'It wasn't a very good lance, sir,' commented Demetrius. 'I am surprised
that the army doesn't furnish these men with better equipment.'

Marcellus laughed aloud. 'And then what?' he urged.

'That was all. I did not tarry. Now that I have broken my
promise,'—Demetrius's tone was repentant—'do you think I can
still consider myself a Christian? Do you suppose I'll have to be baptized
again?'

'I don't know,' mumbled Marcellus, busy with his own thoughts. 'What do
you mean—"Christian"?'

'That's the new name for people who believe in Jesus. They're calling
Jesus "The Christos," meaning "The Anointed."'

'But that's Greek! All these people are Jews, aren't they?'

'By no means, sir! This movement is travelling fast—and far. Simon
the tanner says there are at least three hundred banded together down in
Antioch.'

'Amazing!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'Do you suppose Justus knows?'

'Of course.'

'This is astounding news, Demetrius! I had considered the whole thing a
lost cause! How could it stay alive—after Jesus was dead?'

'Grandfather says you are to come and eat now,' he said moving close to
Marcellus, but giving full attention to the unexplained man in the shabby
tunic. 'Do you catch fish?' he asked Demetrius. 'Have you a boat? Can I ride
in it?'

'This man's name is Demetrius,' said Marcellus. 'He is not a fisherman,
and he does not own a boat. He borrowed the cap.'

Demetrius smiled and fell in behind them as Marcellus, with the little
boy's hand in his, walked toward the tent. Jonathan turned around,
occasionally, to study the newcomer who followed with measured steps.

Justus, busily occupied at the fire, a few yards from the tent, glanced up
with a warm smile of recognition and a word of greeting, apparently not much
surprised at the arrival of their guest.

'May I take over, sir?' asked Demetrius.

'It is all ready, thank you,' said Justus. 'You sit down with Marcellus,
and I shall serve you.'

Demetrius bowed and stepped aside. Presently Justus came to the low table
he had improvised by drawing a couple of packing-cases together, and served
Marcellus and Jonathan with the broiled fish and honey cakes. Jonathan
motioned with his head toward Demetrius and looked up anxiously into
Marcellus's face.

'Why doesn't he come and eat with us?' he inquired.

Marcellus was at a loss for a prompt and satisfactory reply.

'You needn't worry about Demetrius, son,' he remarked, casually. 'He likes
to stand up when he eats.'

Instantly he divined that he had said the wrong thing. Justus, who was
sitting down opposite them, with his own dish, frowned darkly. He had some
deep convictions on the subject of slavery. It was bad enough, his glum
expression said, that Demetrius should be Marcellus's slave. It was
intolerable that this relationship should be viewed so casually.

Jonathan pointed over his shoulder with his half-eaten cake in the
direction of Demetrius, who was standing before the fire, dish in hand,
apparently enjoying his breakfast.

'That man stands up when he eats, Grandfather!' he remarked in a high
treble. 'Isn't that funny?'

'No,' muttered Justus, 'it is not funny.' With that, he left the table,
and went over to stand beside the slave.

Marcellus decided not to make an issue of it and proceeded to some lively
banter with Jonathan, hoping to distract the child's attention.

Demetrius surveyed Justus's grim face and smiled.

'You mustn't let this slave business distress you, sir,' he said, quietly.
'My master is most kind and considerate. He would gladly give his life for
me, as I would for him. But slaves do not sit at table with their masters. It
is a rule.'

'A bad rule!' grumbled Justus, deep in his throat. 'A rule that deserves
to be broken! I had thought better of Marcellus Gallio.'

'It is a small matter,' said Demetrius, calmly. 'If you wish to make my
slavery easier, please think no more of it, sir.'

At that, Justus's face cleared a little. There was no use making a scene
over a situation that was none of his business. If Demetrius was contented,
there wasn't much more to be said.

After they had eaten, Justus carried a dish of food out to the donkey-boy,
Jonathan trotting beside him, still perplexed about the little episode.

Justus frowned, but made no attempt to explain. His grandson had given him
something new to think about. In the meantime Demetrius had joined Marcellus,
his bearded lips puckered as he tried to control a grin.

'Perhaps it will clear the air for everybody, sir,' he said, 'if I go on
by myself to Capernaum. Let me meet you, late this afternoon.'

'Very well,' consented Marcellus. 'Ask Justus where he proposes to stop.
But are you sure it is prudent for you to go down to Capernaum? We have a
fort there, you know.'

'I shall be watchful, sir,' promised Demetrius.

'Take this!' Marcellus poured a handful of coins into his palm. 'And keep
your distance from that fort!'

* * * * *

Demetrius, unencumbered, made good progress down the serpentine road to
the valley floor. The air was hot. He carried his shabby coat and the
disreputable cap under his arm. The lake-shore on this side was barren and
unpopulated. Tossing off his clothing, he waded out and swam joyously,
tumbled about like a dolphin, floated on his back, churned the water with
long overhand strokes, luxuriating in his aquatics and the thorough
cleansing. He came out shaking his mop of hair through his fingers, the
blazing sun drying him before he reached the little pile of patched and faded
garments.

Tiberias gleamed white in the mid-forenoon sun. The marble palace of Herod
Antipas, halfway up the hill, appropriately set apart from the less noble but
surprisingly lavish residences, glistened dazzlingly. Demetrius imagined he
could see a sinuous shimmer of heat enveloping the proud structure, and was
glad he did not have to live there. He was not envious of Herod's privilege
to spend the summer here. However, he reflected, the family had probably
sought a more congenial altitude for the hot season, leaving a small army of
servants to sweat and steal and quarrel until the weather eased with the
coming of autumn.

He had reached the little city now, and proceeded on through it, keeping
close to the beach, where many fishing-boats had been drawn up on the sand,
and the adjacent market-booths reeked of their merchandise. Occasionally he
was viewed with a momentary curiosity by small groups of apathetic loungers,
sitting cross-legged in the shade of dirty food-shops. The air was heavy with
decaying fruit and the stench of rancid oil sizzling in tarnished pans. It
had been a long time since breakfast, and Demetrius had had an unusual amount
of exercise. He tarried before one of the unpleasant food-stalls. The swarthy
cook scowled, and waved his wooden spoon at the shabby traveller with the
uncouth cap—and no pack.

'Begone, fellow!' he commanded. 'We have nothing to give you.'

Demetrius jingled his money, and made a wry face.

'Nor have you anything to sell that a dog would eat,' he retorted.

The greasy fellow instantly beamed with a wheedling smile, lifting his
shoulders and elbows into a posture of servitude. It was this type of Jew
that Demetrius had always despised, the Jew who was arrogant, noisy, and
abusive until he heard a couple of coins clink. Immediately, you were his
friend, his brother, his master. You could pour out a torrent of invective on
him now, if you liked. He would be weather-proofed and his smile
undiminished. He had heard the pennies.

'Oh, not so bad as that, sir!' exclaimed the cook. 'The evil
smell'—he wagged a confidential thumb toward the neighbouring
booth—'it is that one who defiles the air with his stale perch and
wretched oil.' Tipping a grimy kettle forward, he stirred its steaming
contents, appreciatively sucking his lips. 'Delicious!' he murmured.

A tousled, red-eyed legionary sauntered up from the water-front, rested an
elbow on the end of the high table, and sourly sniffed the heavy scent of
burning fat. His uniform was dirty. Apparently he had slept where he fell.
Doubtless he was ready for food now. He gave Demetrius a surly stare.

'Have a bowl of this beautiful pottage, Centurion,' coaxed the cook.
'Choice lamb, with many costly spices. A great helping for only two
farthings.'

Demetrius repressed a grin. 'Centurion,' eh? Why hadn't the Jew gone the
whole way and addressed the debauched legionary as 'Legate'? But perhaps he
knew where to stop when dishing out flattery. The unkempt Roman snarled a
curse, and rubbed his clammy forehead with his dirty brown head-band. The
cook took up an empty bowl and smiled encouragingly at Demetrius, who scowled
and shook his head.

The cook's eager face collapsed, but he was not in a position to refuse
the penniless soldier. With a self-piteous shrug, he half-filled the bowl and
put it down on the filthy table.

'Business is so bad,' he whined.

'So is your pottage,' mumbled the legionary, chewing a hot mouthful. 'Even
that slave would have none of it.'

'Slave, sir?' The cook leaned over the high table to have another look at
the tall Greek, who was moving leisurely up the street. 'He has a wallet full
of money. Good money, too—from the sound of it! A thief, no doubt!'

The legionary put down his spoon. His lip curled in a crafty grin. If an
overdue soldier could reappear at the fort with a prisoner in tow, he might
make a better case for his absence all night.

'Hi, you!' he shouted. 'Come back here!'

Demetrius hesitated, turned, held a brief parley with himself, and
retraced his steps. It would do no good to attempt an escape in the
neighbourhood of a fort.

'Did you call me, sir?' he asked quietly.

'How do you happen to be in Tiberias alone, fellow?' The legionary wiped
his stubbled chin. 'Where is your master? Don't pretend you're not a
slave—with that ear.'

'My master is on the way to Capernaum, sir. He sent me on to seek out a
desirable camping-place.'

This sounded reasonable. The legionary untidily helped himself to another
large spoonful of the pottage.

'Who is your master, fellow? And what is he doing in Capernaum?'

'A Roman citizen, sir; a merchant.'

'A likely tale!' snorted the legionary. 'What manner of merchandise does a
Roman find in Capernaum?'

'Homespun, sir,' said Demetrius. 'Galilean rugs and robes.'

The legionary chuckled scornfully and scraped the bottom of his bowl with
a shaky spoon.

'Greek slaves are usually better liars than that,' he growled. 'You must
think me a fool. A slave in rags and patches, seeking a camp-site for a Roman
who comes all the way to little Capernaum to buy clothing!'

'And with much money on him!' shrilled the cook. 'A robber he is!'

'Shut up, pig!' bellowed the legionary. 'I should take you up too if you
were not so filthy.' Setting his soiled head-band at a jaunty angle, he rose,
tightened his belt, belched noisily, and motioned to Demetrius to fall in
behind him.

'But why am I arrested, sir?' demanded Demetrius.

'Never mind about that!' snarled the legionary. 'You can tell your story
at the fort.' With an exaggerated swagger, he marched stiffly up the street
without turning to see whether his captive was following.

Demetrius hesitated for a moment, but decided that it would be foolhardy
to attempt an escape in a vicinity so well patrolled. He would go along to
the fort and try to send a message to Marcellus.

Beyond the limits of Tiberias the grim old sand-coloured barracks loomed
up on the arid hillside. Above the centre of the quadrangle reared the
parapets of the inevitable praetorium. The legionary strutted on toward the
massive wooden gate. A sentry sluggishly unbarred the heavy barricade. They
passed into the treeless, sun-blistered drill-ground and on between orderly
rows of brown tents, unoccupied now, for it was noon and the legion would be
in the mess-hall. Presently they brought up before the relatively impressive
entrance of the praetorium. A grey-haired guard made way for them.

'Take this slave below and lock him up,' barked the legionary.

'What's your name, fellow?' demanded the guard.

Demetrius told him.

'And your master's name?'

'Lucan, a Roman citizen.'

'Where does he live?'

'In Rome.'

The guard gave the dishevelled legionary an appraising glance. Demetrius
thought he saw some hesitancy on the part of the older man.

'What's the charge?' asked the guard.

'Suspicion of theft,' said the legionary. 'Lock him up, and let him
explain later how he happens to be wandering about, away from his master,
dressed like a fisherman—and with a wallet full of money.'

'Write his name on the slate, then,' said the guard. 'The Centurion is at
mess.'

The legionary fumbled with the chalk, and handed it to Demetrius.

'Can you write your name, slave?' he enquired gruffly.

In spite of his predicament, Demetrius was amused. It was obvious that
neither of these Romans could write. If they couldn't write, they couldn't
read. He took the chalk and wrote:

'Demetrius, Greek slave of Lucan, a Roman encamped in Capernaum.'

'Long name—for a slave,' remarked the legionary. 'If you have
written anything else—'

'My master's name, sir.'

'Put him away, then,' said the legionary, turning to go. The old guard
tapped on the floor with his lance and a younger guard appeared. He signed
with a jerk of his head that Demetrius should follow, and strode off down the
corridor to a narrow stairway. They descended to the prison. Bearded faces
appeared at the small square apertures in the cell-doors; Jewish faces,
mostly, and a few tough-looking Bedouins.

Demetrius was pushed into an open cell at the far end of the narrow
corridor. A perpendicular slit, high in the outer wall, admitted a frugal
light. The only furniture was a wide wooden bench. Anchored to the masonry
lay a heavy chain with a rusty manacle. The guard ignored the chain,
retreated into the corridor, banged the heavy door shut and pushed the
bolt.

Sitting down on the bench, Demetrius surveyed his cramped quarters, and
wondered how long he would have to wait for some official action in his case.
It suddenly occurred to him that if the dissipated legionary suspected the
entry on the slate he might have thought it safer to rub it out. In that
event, the new prisoner stood a good chance of being forgotten. Perhaps he
should have made a dash for it when he had an opportunity. Assuming a speedy
trial, how much should he tell? It would be difficult to explain Marcellus's
business in Galilee. Without doubt, old Julian the Legate was under orders to
make short work of this Christian movement. There was no telling what
attitude he might take if he learned that Marcellus had been consorting with
these disciples of Jesus.

As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Demetrius noticed a shelf in
the corner bearing an earthenware food-basin and a small water-bowl. He had
been hungry an hour ago. Now he was thirsty. Moving to the door he
crouched—for the barred window was not placed for a tenant of his
height—and looked across the narrow corridor into a pair of inquisitive
Roman eyes framed in the opposite cell-door. The eyes were about the same age
as his own, and seemed amused.

'When do we get food and water?' asked Demetrius, in circus Latin.

'Twice,' replied the Roman, amiably. 'At mid-morning—you should have
arrived earlier—and again at sunset. Praise the gods, I shan't be here
for the next feeding. I'm getting out this afternoon. My week is up.'

'I can't wait until sunset for water,' muttered Demetrius.

'I'll wager you ten sesterces you'll wait until they bring it to you,'
drawled the Roman. He straightened to relieve his cramped position, revealing
a metal identification tablet on the chain around his neck.

'What is your legion?' inquired Demetrius, seeing his neighbour was
disposed to be talkative.

'Seventeenth: this one.'

'Why aren't you in the legion's guardhouse,' ventured Demetrius, 'instead
of down in this hole with the villains?'

'The guardhouse is full,' chuckled the legionary.

'Was there a mutiny?' inquired Demetrius.

Not a mutiny, the legionary explained. They had had a celebration. Julian
the Legate had been transferred to Jerusalem. The new Legate had brought a
detachment of fifty along with him from his old command, to guard him on the
journey. During the festivities, much good wine had flowed; much good blood,
too, for the detachment from Minoa was made up of quarrelsome
legionaries—

'Indeed he is!' retorted the legionary. 'And hard! Old Julian was
easy-going. This fellow has no mercy. As for the fighting, it was nothing; a
few dagger cuts, a couple of bloody noses. One man from Minoa lost a slice
off his ear.' He grinned reminiscently. 'I sliced it off,' he added,
modestly. 'It didn't hurt him much. And he knew it was accidental.' After a
little pause, 'I see somebody nicked you on the ear.'

'That wasn't accidental,' grinned Demetrius, willing to humour the
legionary, who laughed appreciatively, as if it were a good joke on the Greek
that he had been enslaved.

'Did you run away?' asked the Roman.

'No—I was to have joined my master in Capernaum.'

'He'll get you out. You needn't worry. He's a Roman, of course.'

'Yes,' said Demetrius, 'but he doesn't know I'm here.' He lowered his
voice. 'I wonder if you could get a message to him. I'd gladly give you
something for your trouble.'

The legionary laughed derisively.

'Big talk—for a slave,' he scoffed. 'How much? Two denarii,
maybe?'

'I'll give you ten shekels.'

'That you won't!' muttered the legionary. 'I don't want any of that kind
of money, fellow!'

'I didn't steal it,' declared Demetrius. 'My master gave it to me.'

'Well, you can keep it!' The legionary scowled and moved back from the
door.

Of course it was sheer nonsense to say that you had full
confidence in Nathanael Bartholomew's integrity but disbelieved his
eye-witness account of the storm.

Nor could you clarify this confusion by assuming that the old man had been
a victim of hallucination. Bartholomew wasn't that type of person. He was
neither a liar nor a fool.

According to his story, told at great length as they sat together in his
little fig orchard, Jesus had rebuked a tempest on the Sea of Galilee; he
commanded the gale to cease, and it had obeyed his voice—instantly!
Jesus had spoken and the storm had stopped! Bartholomew had snapped his dry
old fingers. Like THAT!

And the story wasn't hearsay. Bartholomew hadn't heard it from a neighbour
who had got it from his cousin. No, sir! The old man had been in the boat
that night. He had heard and seen it all! If you couldn't believe it,
Bartholomew would not be offended; but it was TRUTH!

The tale was finished now. The aged disciple sat calmly fanning his
wrinkled neck, drawing his long, white beard aside and loosening the collar
of his robe. Marcellus, with no further comments to offer and no more
questions to ask, frowned studiously at his own interlaced fingers, conscious
of Justus's inquisitive eyes. He knew they expected him to express an
opinion; and, after a silence that was becoming somewhat constrained, he
obliged them by muttering to himself, 'Very strange! Very strange
indeed!'

The dramatic story had been told with fervour, told with an old man's
verbosity, but without excitement. Bartholomew wasn't trying to persuade you;
nor was he trying to convert you. He had nothing to sell. Justus had asked
him to tell about that storm, and he had done so. Perhaps it was his first
opportunity for so complete a recital of all its incidents. Certainly it was
the first time he had ever told the story to someone who hadn't heard it.

Shortly after Demetrius had set off alone, that morning, the little
caravan had proceeded slowly down the winding road to the valley; had skirted
the sparsely populated lake-shore to Tiberias where the ostentatious Roman
palaces on the hills accented the squalor of the water-front; had followed
the beach street through the city; had passed the frowning old fort, and
entered the sprawling suburbs of Capernaum.

Jonathan had been promised a brief visit with Thomas—and the donkey;
so they had turned off into a side street where, after many inquiries, they
had found the little house and an enthusiastic welcome. Upon the urgent
persuasion of Thomas and his mother, Jonathan was left with them, to be
picked up on the morrow. Everybody agreed that the donkey recognized
Jonathan, though the elders privately suspected that the sugar which had been
melting in the little boy's warm hand for the past two hours might have
accounted partly for Jasper's flattering feat of memory.

Regaining the principal thoroughfare, they had moved on toward the
business centre of the town which had figured so prominently in Justus's
recollections of Jesus. They had halted for a moment in front of Lydia's
home, and Justus was for making a brief call, but Marcellus dissuaded him as
it was nearing midday and a visit might be inopportune.

The central plaza had seemed familiar. The synagogue—ironically more
Roman than Jewish in its architecture, which was understandable because
Centurion Hortensius had furnished the money—spread its marble steps
fanwise into the northern boundary of the spacious square, exactly as
Marcellus had pictured it; for it was from these steps that Jesus had
addressed massed multitudes of thousands. It was almost deserted now, except
for the beggars, tapping on the pavement with their empty bowls; for
everybody who had a home to go to was at his noonday meal.

Marcellus felt he had been here many times before. Indeed he was so
preoccupied with identifying the cherished landmarks that he almost forgot
they were to have met Demetrius here. Justus had reminded him, and Marcellus
had looked about apprehensively. It would be a very awkward situation if
Demetrius had been arrested. He had no relish for an interview with old
Julian; not while on his present mission. Justus relieved his anxiety
somewhat by saying he had told Demetrius where they would make camp, on the
grounds of the old Shalum Inn; but what could be detaining Demetrius in the
meantime?

'Perhaps he misunderstood me,' suggested Justus.

'It's possible,' agreed Marcellus, 'but unlikely. Demetrius has a good ear
for instructions.'

They had sauntered down to the beach, strewn with fishing-boats drawn up
on the shingle, leaving the donkey-boy to keep an eye open for Demetrius.
Justus had suggested that they eat their lunch on the shore. After waiting a
half-hour for the Greek to appear, they had packed their lunch kit and
proceeded northward, Marcellus anxious but still hopeful of meeting his loyal
slave at the inn. It was a quiet spot—the Inn of Ben-Shalum, with
spacious grounds for travellers carrying their own camping equipment. No one
had seen anything of a tall Greek slave. Hastily unpacking, they put up the
tent in the shade of two tall sycamores, and made off toward the home of
Bartholomew, a little way up the suburban street.

And now the old man had ended the story they had come to hear. In its
preliminary phases, episodes had been introduced which bore no closer
relation to the eventful storm than that they had occurred on the same day.
Jesus had been very weary that night; so weary that he had slept at the
height of the gale and had had to be awakened when it became clear that the
little ship was foundering. Such deep fatigue had to be accounted for; so
Bartholomew had elaborated the day's activities.

Sometimes, for a considerable period, the husky old voice would settle
deep in the sparse white beard and rumble on in an almost inaudible monotone,
and you knew that Bartholomew had deserted you and Justus for the great crowd
that sat transfixed on a barren coast—a weary, wistful, hungry
multitude of self-contained people who, in the melting warmth of Jesus'
presence, had combined into one sympathetic family, for the sharing of their
food.

'A clean, bright lad,' Bartholomew was mumbling to himself; 'a nephew of
Lydia's, who had none of her own; he spent most of his time at her house. She
had packed his little basket.'

And then, suddenly remembering his guests, Bartholomew had roused from his
reverie to tell Marcellus all about Lydia's strange healing; and Justus had
not intervened with a hint that their young Roman friend had already heard of
her experience. Having finished with Lydia—and Jairus, too, whose
little daughter had been marvellously restored that day—the old man had
drifted back to his memories of the remarkable feast in the desert.

'The boy must have been sitting at the Master's feet,' he soliloquized,
with averted eyes. 'He must have been sitting there all the time; for when
Jesus said we would now eat our supper, there he was, as if he had popped up
from nowhere, holding out his little basket.'

It had taken Bartholomew a long time to tell of that strange supper; the
sharing of bread, the new acquaintances, the breaking down of reserve among
strangers, the tenderness toward the old ones and the little ones.... And
then the tempo of the tale speeded. Wisps of chill wind lashed the parched
weeds. Dark clouds rolled up from the north-east. The old man swept them on
with a beckoning arm; black clouds that had suddenly darkened the sky. There
was a low muttering of thunder. The crowd grew apprehensive. The people were
scrambling to their feet, gathering up their families, breaking into a run.
The long procession was on its way home.

Darkness came on fast, the lowering black clouds lanced by slim, jagged,
red-hot spears that spilled torrents splashing on to the sun-parched sand.
Philip was for rushing to shelter in the little village of Bethsaida, two
miles east. Peter was for beaching the big boat and using the mainsail for
cover. And when they had all finished making suggestions, Jesus said they
would embark at once and return to Capernaum.

'He said we had nothing to fear,' went on Bartholomew, 'but we were
afraid, nevertheless. Some of them tried to reason with him. I said nothing,
myself. Old men are timid,' he paused to interpolate directly to Marcellus.
'When there are dangers to be faced, old men should keep still, for there's
little they can do, in any case.'

'I should have thought,' commented Marcellus, graciously, 'that an elderly
man's experience would make him a wise counsellor—on any occasion.'

'Not in a storm, young man!' declared Bartholomew. 'An old man may give
you good advice, under the shade of a fig tree, on a sunny afternoon;
but—not in a storm!'

The boat had been anchored in the lee of a little cove, but it was with
great difficulty that they had struggled through the waves and over the side.
Unutterably weary, Jesus had dropped down on the bare bench near the tiller
and they had covered him up with a length of drenched sail-cloth.

Manning the oars, they had manoeuvred into open water, had put out a
little jib and promptly hauled it in, the tempest suddenly mounting in fury.
No one of them, Bartholomew said, had ever been out in such a storm. Now the
boat was tossed high on the crest, now it was swallowed up, gigantic waves
broke over their heads, the flood pounded them off their seats and twisted
the oars out of their hands. The tortured little ship was filling rapidly.
All but four oars had been abandoned now. The rest of the crew were bailing
frantically. But the water was gaining on them. And Jesus slept!

Justus broke into the narrative here, as Bartholomew—whose vivid
memory of that night's hard work with a bailing-bucket brought big beads of
perspiration out on his deep-lined forehead—had paused to wield his
palm-leaf fan.

'You thought Jesus should get up and help, didn't you?' Justus was
grinning broadly.

The old man's lips twitched with a self-reproachful smile.

'Well,' he admitted, 'perhaps we did think that after getting us into this
trouble he might take a hand at one of the buckets. Of course,' he hastened
to explain, 'we weren't quite ourselves. We were badly shaken. It was getting
to be a matter of life or death. And we were completely exhausted—the
kind of exhaustion that makes every breath whistle and burn.'

'And so you shouted to him,' prodded Justus.

'Yes! We shouted to him!' Bartholomew turned to address Marcellus. '_I_
shouted to him! "Master!" I called. "We are going to drown! The boat is
sinking! Don't you care?"' The old man dropped his head and winced at the
memory. 'Yes,' he muttered, contritely, '_I_ said that—to my
Master.'

After a moment's silence, Bartholomew gave a deep sigh, and continued.
Jesus had stirred, had sat up, had stretched out his long, strong arms, had
rubbed his fingers through his drenched hair.

'Not alarmed?' inquired Marcellus.

'Jesus was never alarmed!' retorted Bartholomew, indignantly. 'He rose to
his feet and started forward, wading through the water, hands reaching up to
steady him as he made for the housing of the mainmast. Climbing up on the
heavy planking, he stood for a moment with one arm around the mast, looking
out upon the towering waves. Then he raised both arms high. We gasped,
expecting him to be pitched overboard. He held both hands
outstretched—and spoke! It was not a shrill shout. It was rather as one
might soothe a frightened animal. "Peace!" he said. "Peace! Be still!"'

The climax of the story had been built up to such intensity that Marcellus
found his heart speeding. He leaned forward and stared wide-eyed into the old
man's face.

'Then what?' he demanded.

'The storm was over,' declared Bartholomew.

'Not IMMEDIATELY!' protested Marcellus.

Bartholomew deliberately raised his arm and snapped his brittle old
fingers.

'Like THAT!' he exclaimed.

'And the stars came out,' added Justus.

'I don't remember,' murmured Bartholomew.

'Philip said the stars came out,' persisted Justus, quietly.

'That may be,' nodded Bartholomew. 'I don't remember.'

'Some have said that the boat was immediately dry,' murmured Justus, with
a little twinkle in his eyes as if anticipating the old man's
contradiction.

'That was a mistake,' sniffed Bartholomew. 'Some of us bailed out water
all the way back to Capernaum. Whoever reported that should have been
helping.'

'How did you all feel about this strange thing?' asked Marcellus.

'We hadn't much to say,' remembered Bartholomew. 'I think we were stunned.
There had been so much confusion—and now everything was quiet. The
water, still coated with foam, was calm as a pond. As for me, I experienced a
peculiar sensation of peace. Perhaps the words that Jesus spoke to the storm
had stilled us too—in our hearts.'

'And what did HE do?' asked Marcellus.

'He went back to the bench by the tiller and sat down,' replied
Bartholomew. 'He gathered his robe about him, for he was wet and chilled.
After a while he turned to us, smiled reproachfully, and said, as if speaking
to little children, "Why were you so frightened?" Nobody ventured to answer
that. Perhaps he didn't expect us to say anything. Presently he reclined,
with his arm for a pillow, and went to sleep again.'

'Are you sure he was asleep?' asked Justus.

'No, but he was very quiet and his eyes were closed. Perhaps he was
thinking. Everyone thought he was asleep. There was very little talk. We
moved to the centre of the boat and looked into each other's faces. I
remember Philip's whispering, "What manner of man is this—that even the
winds and waves obey him?"'

The story was finished. Marcellus, for whose benefit the tale had been
told, knew they were waiting for him to say whether he believed it. He sat
bowed far forward in his chair, staring into the little basket he had made of
his interlaced fingers. Bartholomew wasn't wilfully lying. Bartholomew was
perfectly sane. But—by all the gods!—you couldn't believe a story
like THAT! A man—speaking to a storm! Speaking to a storm as he might
to a stampeded horse! And that storm obeying his command! No!—you
couldn't have any of THAT! He felt Justus's friendly eyes inquiring.
Presently he straightened a little, and shook his head.

The afternoon was well advanced when the grey-haired captain of the guard
came down to free the legionary who had sliced off the ear of a visiting
fellow-in-arms from Minoa.

Demetrius listened attentively at the little window in his door as his
neighbour's bolt was drawn, hoping to overhear some conversation relative to
the prisoner's release; but was disappointed. Neither man had spoken. The
heavy door was swung back and the legionary had emerged. The captain of the
guard had preceded him down the dusky corridor. The sound of their sandals,
scraping on the stone floor, died away.

Shortly afterwards there was a general stir throughout the prison;
guttural voices; unbolting of doors and rattling of heavy earthenware bowls
and basins; the welcome sound of splashing water. Feeding time had arrived
and was being greeted with the equivalent of pawing hoofs, clanking chains,
and nostril-fluttering whimpers in a stable. Demetrius's mouth and throat
were dry; his tongue a clumsy wooden stick. His head throbbed. He couldn't
remember ever having been so thirsty; not even in the loathsome prison-ship
on the way from Corinth to Rome, long years ago.

It seemed they would never reach his end of the corridor. He hoped the
water would hold out until they came to his cell. That was all he
wanted—water! As for food, it didn't matter; but he had to have
water—NOW!

At length they shuffled up to his door, unbolted it, and swung it wide
open. Two burly, brutish, ear-slit Syrian slaves appeared in the doorway. The
short, stocky one, with the spade beard, deep pockmarks, and greasy hands,
plunged his gourd-dipper into an almost empty bucket of malodorous pottage
and pointed angrily to the food-basin on the shelf. Demetrius, with nothing
on his mind but his consuming thirst, had been waiting with his water-bowl in
hand. He reached up for the food-basin, and the surly Syrian dumped the
gourdful of reeking hot garbage into it. Then he rummaged in the bottom of a
filthy bag and came up with a small loaf of black bread which he tossed on to
the bare bench. It bounced and clattered like a stone.

Retreating to make room for his companion, the stocky one edged out into
the corridor and the tall one entered with a large water-jar on his shoulder.
Half-crazed with thirst, Demetrius held his water-bowl high. The Syrian, with
a crooked grin, as if it amused him to see a Greek in such a predicament,
tipped the jar, and from its considerable height poured a stream that
overflowed the bowl, drenching the prisoner's clothing. There was hardly more
than a spoonful left. The Syrian was backing toward the door.

'Give me water!' demanded Demetrius, huskily.

The fellow sneered, tipped the jar again, and poured the remainder of the
water over Demetrius's feet. Chuckling, but vigilant, he moved back into the
doorway.

Though the bowl was not large, it was heavy and sturdy pottery, and in the
hand of a man as recklessly thirsty and angry as Demetrius it was capable of
doing no small amount of damage. But for the thick mop of kinky hair that
covered his forehead, the blow might have cracked the Syrian's skull, for it
was delivered with all the earnestness that Demetrius could put into it.

Dropping the water-jar, which broke into jagged fragments, the dizzied
Syrian, spluttering with rage, whipped out a long dagger from his dirty sash,
and lunged forward. Hot pottage would not have been Demetrius's choice of
weapons, but it was all he had to fight with; so he threw it into his
assailant's face. Momentarily detained by this unexpected onslaught, the
Syrian received another more serious blow. Raising the heavy food-basin in
both hands, Demetrius brought it down savagely on the fellow's forearm,
knocking the dagger from his hand. Unarmed, the Syrian reeled back into the
corridor, where the stocky one, unable to force his way into the cell, was
waiting the outcome of the battle. Demetrius took advantage of this moment to
pick up the dagger. With the way cleared, the stocky one, dagger in hand, was
about to plunge in; but when he saw that the prisoner had armed himself, he
backed out and began swinging the door shut.

Unwilling to be trapped and probably killed with a lance thrust through
the window, Demetrius threw his weight against the closing door and forced
his way out into the corridor. Excited by the confusion, the prisoners set up
a clamour of encouraging shouts that brought the elderly Captain of the guard
and three others scurrying down the stone stairway. They paused, a few feet
from the engagement. One of the younger guards was for rushing in to separate
them, but the Captain put out an arm and barred the way. It wasn't every day
that you could see a determined fight waged with daggers. When angry men met
at close range with daggers, it was rough sport.

Cautious in their cramped quarters, the contestants were dodging about,
taking each other's measure. The Syrian, four inches shorter but considerably
outweighing the Greek, crouched for a spring. One of the younger guards
emptied his flat wallet into his hand.

'Two shekels and nine denarii on the Syrian pig,' he wagered. The others
shook their heads. The Greek was at a disadvantage. The dagger was the
favourite weapon with the Syrians—a dagger with a long, curving blade.
The Syrian considered it good strategy to slip up behind an enemy in the dark
and let him have it between the ribs a little below and to the right of the
left shoulder. On such occasions one needed a long knife. Demetrius was not
unfamiliar with daggers, but had never practised with one that had been
especially contrived for stabbing a man in the back.

He was finding his borrowed weapon unwieldly in this narrow corridor. It
was close-in fighting and a decidedly dangerous business. The tall Syrian
lurked back in the darkness behind his companion. The stocky one, facing an
appreciative audience of guards, seemed eager to bring the event to an early
conclusion. They were sparring actively now, their clashing blades striking
sparks in the gloom. Demetrius was gradually retreating, very much on the
defensive. The guards backed away to give him a chance. The pace of the
fighting increased, the Syrian forcing the action.

'Ha!' he shouted; and a dark, wet streak showed up on the Greek's right
sleeve, above the elbow. An instant later, a long gash appeared across the
back of the Syrian's hand. He gave a quick fling of his arm to shake off the
blood, but not quick enough. A cut had opened over his collar-bone,
dangerously close to his throat. He retreated a step. Demetrius pursued his
advantage, and added another gash to his antagonist's hand.

'ON GUARD, Greek!' shouted the Captain. The tall Syrian in the rear had
drawn back his arm to hurl a chunk of the broken water-jar. Demetrius dodged,
at the warning, and the murderous missile grazed the side of his head.

'Enough!' yelled the Captain. Grasping Demetrius's shoulder, he pushed him
aside, the younger guards followed with lances poised to strike.

'Come out of there, vermin!' the Captain ordered. The Syrians sullenly
obeyed, the stocky one yielding his bloody dagger as he squeezed by the
guards. The procession started down the corridor and up the stairs. Arriving
on the main floor, the Captain led the way along the spacious hall, and out
into the courtyard. Water was brought, wounds were laved and crudely
bandaged. Demetrius grabbed a water-jar, and drank greedily. The cut on his
arm was deep and painful, and the wide abrasion on his temple burned, but now
that he had had a drink, nothing else mattered much.

The Captain gave a command to proceed and they re-entered the praetorium,
turned to the left at a broad marble staircase, and ascended to the second
floor. A sentry informed the guard at an imposing door that Captain Namius
wished to see the Legate. The guard disappeared, returning presently with a
curt nod. They advanced through the open door and filed into the sumptuous
courtroom, brightly lighted with great lamps suspended from beautifully
wrought chains.

Demetrius's wounds were throbbing but he was not too badly hurt to be
amused. Paulus, rattling a leather dice-cup, was facing Sextus across the
ornately carved table that dominated the dais at the far end of the room. So
Paulus, transferred to the command of the fort at Capernaum, had brought his
old gaming companion along. The guards and their quarry, preceded by two
sentries, in gay uniforms, marched forward. Legate Paulus glanced
disinterestedly in their direction and returned his attention to the more
important business in hand. Shaking the cup, he poured out the dice on the
polished table, and shrugged. Sextus grinned, took the cup, shook it
languidly, poured it out—and scowled. Paulus laughed, and sat down in
the huge chair behind the table. Centurion Sextus came to attention.

'What is it, Namius?' yawned Paulus.

'The Syrians were fighting this Greek prisoner, sir.'

'What about?' asked Paulus, impatiently.

Captain Namius didn't know. The Syrian slaves were feeding the prisoners,
and 'somehow got mixed up with this Greek.'

'Take the Syrians away for the present, Captain,' he said. 'I would talk
with this Greek.' He waited until the guards and the Syrians had left the
room.

'Are you badly hurt, Demetrius?' asked Paulus, kindly.

'No, sir.' Demetrius was becoming aware that the room was slowly revolving
and growing dark. The Legate's ruddy face was blurred. He heard Paulus bark
an order and felt the edge of a chair pushed up behind him. He sank down in
it weakly. A sentry handed him a glass of wine. He gulped it. Presently the
vertigo cleared. 'I am sorry, sir,' he said.

'How do you happen to be here, Demetrius?' inquired Paulus. 'But no, that
can wait. Where is your master?'

'My master has taken a fancy to Galilean homespun, sir. He has been
touring about, looking for—such things.'

Paulus frowned darkly and stared into Demetrius's face.

'Is he well—in his head, I mean?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' said Demetrius, 'quite well, sir.'

'There was a rumour—' Paulus did not finish the sentence, but it was
evident that he expected a rejoinder. Demetrius, unaccustomed to sitting in
the presence of his betters, rose unsteadily to his feet.

'The Tribune was ill, sir, for several months. He was deeply depressed. He
went to Athens, and recovered.'

'What was he so depressed about, Demetrius?' asked Paulus; and when the
reply was not immediately forthcoming, he added, 'Do I know?'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius.

'Something cracked—when he put on that robe—at the
Procurator's banquet.'

'Yes, sir. It did something to him.'

'I remember. It affected him strangely.' Paulus shook himself loose from
an unpleasant recollection. 'Now for your case. Why are you here?'

Demetrius explained in a few words, and when Paulus inquired about the
fight, he replied that he had wanted water and the Syrian wouldn't give it to
him.

'Bring Captain Namius in!' commanded Paulus. A sentry went out and
returned almost immediately with the guards and the Syrians. The explanation
proceeded swiftly. Namius gave an account of the duel in the corridor.

'We stopped it,' he concluded, 'when this Syrian picked up a shard of the
broken water-jar and threw it at the Greek.'

'Take him out and give him thirty-nine lashes with a bull-whip!' shouted
Paulus. 'Lock the other pig up—and don't try to fatten him. That will
be all, Captain.'

'And the Greek, sir?' asked Namius.

'Put him to bed, and have the physician attend to his injuries.'

Namius gave an order. The guards made off with the Syrians.

'Shall I go now, sir?' asked Demetrius.

'Yes, with the Captain. No—wait. You may go, Namius. I shall summon
you.' Paulus watched the retreating figure of the old guard until he reached
the door; then, glancing about the room, he said quietly, 'You may all go.'
He looked up over his shoulder. 'You, too, Sextus. I want a word alone with
Demetrius.'

* * * * *

They had almost nothing to say to each other on the way back to the inn.
Justus, preoccupied and somehow elevated, as if the afternoon with
Bartholomew had reinvigorated his spirit, strode along with confident
steps.

As for Marcellus, the old disciple's story had impressed and disturbed
him. Had he never known of Jesus until to-day, and Bartholomew had said, 'I
heard this man speak to a storm—and the storm ceased,' he could have
dismissed that statement as utterly preposterous. But the testimony about
Jesus' peculiar powers had been cumulative. It had been coming at him from
all directions.

Marcellus's footsteps lagged as his thoughts became more involved. Justus,
appreciating his dilemma, gave him an understanding smile, lengthened his
stride, and moved on alone, leaving his bewildered patron to follow at his
leisure.

The trouble was, once you began to concede that there might be an element
of truth in some of these stories, it was unreasonable to draw an arbitrary
line beyond which your credulity would not go. It was childish to say,
'Yes—I believe Jesus could have done THIS extraordinary thing, but I
don't believe he could have done THAT!'

Some of the stories permitted a common-sense explanation. Take Hariph's
naïve account of the wedding-feast, for example. That wasn't hard to see
through. The porous water-jars had previously held wine. Of course you had to
concede the astounding effect of Jesus' personality on the wedding-guests,
who loved, admired, and trusted him. Not everybody could have made that water
taste like wine. You were willing to grant that. Mean and frugal fare could
be made pleasantly palatable when shared with a well-loved friend. If the
water-into-wine episode had been the only example of Jesus' inexplicable
power, it would present no problem at all. But there was Miriam's sudden
realization that she possessed an inspired voice; had made this amazing
discovery on the same day that the other thing had happened in the home of
Hariph. If you consented to Miriam's story (and its truth was self-evident)
you might as well accept Hariph's. And there was the strange feeding of the
five thousand. You could explain that without difficulty. Under Jesus'
persuasive words about human brotherhood, they had shared their food. You had
to concede nothing here but the tremendous strength of Jesus' personality,
which you were glad enough to do because you believed in it yourself.
Demosthenes had wrought wonders with his impassioned appeals to the Greeks.
Such infusions of courage and honesty required no miracle.

But there was little Jonathan. The whole town of Sepphoris knew that
Jonathan had been born a cripple. Of course you could maintain that Jesus
could have manipulated that crooked little foot and reduced its dislocation;
and if that were the only story of Jesus' surprising deeds, your explanation
might suffice. To be sure, that leaves the entire population of Sepphoris
believing something that wasn't true; but even that was possible. There was
no limit to the credulity of unsophisticated people. Indeed, they rather
liked to believe in the uncanny.

There was Lydia, healed of a long-time disease by touching Jesus' robe.
Well—you couldn't say that was impossible in the face of your own
experience. You had impulsively told Justus that you believed it, and Justus
felt that you were ready to hear about the storm. If you believed that Jesus'
supernormal power could heal the physical and mental sickness of those who
merely touched his robe, by what reasoning do you disbelieve that he could
still a storm? Once you impute to him supernormal power, what kind of
impertinence consents to your drawing up a detailed list of the peculiar
things he can and cannot do? Yet this storm story was too, too much! Here you
have no human multitude yielding to the entreating voice. This is an
inanimate, insensible tempest! No human being—however
persuasive—could still a storm! Concede Jesus THAT power, and you admit
that he was DIVINE.

* * * * *

'I have taken the liberty of asking Shalum to bake us a fish,' announced
Justus, as Marcellus slowly sauntered toward the tent. We will have supper at
the inn. It will be a relief from my poor cooking.

'I had almost forgotten about the poor fellow,' confessed Marcellus.
'There has been much to think about, this afternoon.'

'If Demetrius has been arrested, he will give an account of himself,' said
Justus, reassuringly. 'You will learn his whereabouts promptly, I think. They
will surrender him—for a price—no matter what the indictment is.
Valuable slaves don't stay long in jail. Shall we go to supper now, sir?'

The dining-hall had accommodation for only a score of guests, but it was
tastefully appointed. Because the lighting facilities in small town
hostelries were not good, travellers dined early. The three dignified
Pharisees, whose commodious tent had been pitched in the sycamore grove
during the afternoon, occupied a table in the centre of the room. Two
centurions from the fort were enjoying their wine at a table by a western
window while they waited to be served. Shalum—grizzled, bow-legged,
obsequious—led the way to a corner table, bowing deeply when Justus
introduced his friend.

'Is he a Christian?' asked Marcellus, as Shalum waddled away.

Justus blinked with surprise, and Marcellus grinned.

'Yes,' said Justus, in a barely audible tone that strongly counselled
caution.

'You didn't think I knew that word, did you?' murmured Marcellus.

Justus did not reply, but sat with arms folded, staring out into the
garden.

'Demetrius picked it up in Joppa,' explained Marcellus, quietly.

'We must be careful,' admonished Justus. 'Pharisees have small hearts, but
big ears.'

'Is that a saying?' Marcellus chuckled.

'Yes, but not a loud saying,' warned Justus, breaking one of the small
brown loaves. He raised his voice a little and said, casually, 'Shalum bakes
a good bread. Have some.'

'You come here frequently?'

'This is the first time for a year and a half,' confided Justus. 'Last
time I was in this room, it was full. Shalum gave a dinner for Jesus. All the
disciples and a few others were here; and there must have been a hundred
outside. Shalum fed them too.'

'Nothing secret about it, then.'

'No, not at that time. The priests were already plotting how they might
destroy his influence with the people, but they were not yet openly
hostile.'

'That's strange,' said Marcellus. 'When Jesus was alive and an active
menace to the priests' business, no effort was made to keep his doings a
secret. Now that he is dead and gone—you must talk about him in
whispers.'

Justus looked Marcellus squarely in the eyes, and smiled. He seemed about
to make some rejoinder, but refrained. An old servitor came with their
supper; the baked fish on a large platter, lentils in cream, stewed figs, and
a pitcher of wine. It was an attractive meal and they were hungry.

'Did you sit close to Jesus at that dinner?' asked Marcellus, after some
moments devoted to their food.

'No, I sat with Matthias, over yonder by the door.'

'Where did Jesus sit?' inquired Marcellus.

'There,' nodded Justus, 'where you're sitting.'

Marcellus started.

'No one should ever sit here!' he declared.

Justus's eyes mellowed, and he approved Marcellus's sentiment with a
comradely smile.

'You talk like a Christian yourself, my friend,' he murmured; adding,
after a moment, 'Did you enjoy Bartholomew's story?'

'It wasn't meant to be enjoyed!' retorted Marcellus. 'I confess I'm
thoroughly bewildered by it. Bartholomew is a fine old man. I'm convinced
that he believes his story to be true.'

'But you don't believe it,' said Justus.

'Bartholomew made one statement, Justus, that may throw a little light on
the matter. Do you remember his saying that he felt at peace, that he felt
calmed, when Jesus spoke to the storm? Maybe that's where the storm was
stilled, the storm in these men's minds! Jesus spoke to their fears, and they
were reassured.'

'Why not! Don't you realize that he has to be superhuman to do that? Can't
you see that such an act makes him A GOD?'

'Well, and if it does—'

'Then you're left with a lot more explaining to do. Suppose you say that
Jesus is divine; a god! Would he permit himself to be placed under arrest,
and dragged about in the night from one court to another, whipped and
reviled? Would he—this god!—consent to be put to death on a
cross? A god, indeed! Crucified—dead—and buried!'

Justus sat for a moment, saying nothing, staring steadily into Marcellus's
troubled eyes. Then he leaned far forward, grasped his sleeve, and drew him
close. He whispered something into Marcellus's ear.

'Why do you want to say a thing like that to me?' he demanded, testily. 'I
happen to know it isn't true! You might make some people believe it—but
not me! I hadn't intended to tell you this painful thing, Justus, but—I
SAW HIM DIE! I saw a lance thrust deep into his heart! I saw them take his
limp body down—dead as ever a dead man was!'

'Everybody knows that,' agreed Justus, calmly. 'He was put to death and
laid away in a tomb. And on the morning of the third day, he came to life
again, and was seen walking about in a garden.'

'You're mad, Justus! Such things don't happen!'

'Careful!' warned Justus. 'We mustn't be overheard.'

Pushing his plate away, Marcellus folded his arms on the table. His hands
were trembling.

'If you think Jesus is alive,' he muttered, 'where is he?'

Justus shook his head, made a hopeless little gesture with both hands, and
gave a long sigh.

'I don't know,' he said, dreamily, 'but I do know he is alive.' After a
quiet moment, Justus brightened a little. 'I am always looking for him,' he
went on. 'Every time a door opens. At every turn of the road. At every
street-corner. At every hill-crest.'

Marcellus's eyes had widened, and he nodded understandingly.

'I knew you were always expecting to meet someone,' he said. 'If you
persist in that habit, you'll lose your wits.' Neither man spoke for some
moments. Marcellus looked toward the door. 'Do you mean to say,' he asked,
cautiously, 'that you wouldn't be surprised if Jesus came in here
now—and asked Shalum to serve him his supper?'

Justus repressed a smile at the sight of Marcellus's almost boyish
expression of complete bafflement.

'No,' he replied, confidently. 'I shouldn't be surprised, at all. I
confess I was badly shaken the first time I saw him. As you say, such things
don't happen. They're quite impossible. Had I been alone, I should have
doubted my senses—and my sanity, too.'

'Where was this?' demanded Marcellus, as seriously as if he expected to
believe the story.

'At Benyosef's house; quite a little company of us; ten days after Jesus
had been put to death. We had had a simple supper together. The sun had set,
but the lamps had not yet been lighted. There had been much talk about Jesus'
reappearance. Several of the disciples claimed to have seen him. I, for one,
didn't believe it; though I kept still. There had been a lot of confusing
reports. On the morning of the third day, some women had gone to the
sepulchre and found it empty. One of them said she had seen Jesus, walking in
the garden; said he had spoken to her.'

'Hysterical, I dare say,' put in Marcellus.

'That's what I made of it,' admitted Justus. 'And then there was a story
that two men had seen him on the highway and asked him to have supper with
them at an inn.'

'Reliable people?'

'I didn't know them. One was a man named Cleopas, a cousin of Alphaeus. I
never heard the other man's name.'

'Sounds to me like poor testimony.'

'It seemed that way to me also,' said Justus. 'Several of the disciples
declared he had come into the room where they were sitting, that same night.
But they were terribly wrought up, and I thought they might have imagined
seeing him, what with so many strange reports flying about—'

'Yes, that's the one,' Justus went on, undisturbed by the implications of
Marcellus's query. 'And when John had finished his story, Thomas stood up and
spoke his mind—and my mind, too. "I don't believe a word of it!" he
shouted. "And I don't intend to believe it until I have seen him with my own
eyes—and touched his wounds with my hands!"'

'He was a bold fellow,' remarked Marcellus. 'Was John offended?'

'I don't know,' said Justus, absently. 'He didn't have much time to be
offended. Jesus was standing there, at Thomas's elbow.'

'No, Justus!'

'Yes—with the same compassionate smile we all knew so well.'

'A spectre?'

'Not at all! He was a little thinner. You could see the effects of the bad
treatment he had suffered. There were long scratches on his forehead. He held
his hands out to Thomas—-'

'Did you all gather about him?' asked Marcellus, with a dry throat.

'No, I think we were stunned. I'm sure I was. I couldn't have moved if I
had tried. There was complete silence. Jesus stood there, holding out his
hands and smiling into Thomas's eyes. You could see the deep wounds in his
palms. "Touch them," he said, gently. This was too much for Thomas. He
covered his face with his hands and cried like a child.'

The dining-room had cleared. Twilight was settling. Shalum came over to
inquire if there was anything else he could do for them. Marcellus glanced up
bewilderedly at this summons back to reality.

'I have been telling my friend some things about Jesus,' said Justus.

'Yes, yes,' nodded Shalum. 'Once, when he honoured my poor house, he was
seated there, sir, where you are sitting.'

'Did he rise and speak—at the dinner?' asked Marcellus.

'He did not rise to speak,' remembered Justus.

'He told a story,' said Shalum. 'It seems someone had asked him to explain
what was meant by "my neighbour" as it is written in our law. And Jesus told
a fable about a man who was travelling from Jerusalem to Jericho—a
dangerous road—and was beset by Bedouins who stripped, robbed, and
wounded him, leaving him half-dead. A priest came along and saw him, but
passed on. A Levite, too, paused—but went his way. Then a Samaritan
came—we do not care much for Samaritans up here, sir—and tied up
the man's wounds, and took him to an inn. "Which of these men," he asked,
"was a neighbour to him who fell among thieves?"'

'That was easily answered, I think,' observed Marcellus. 'Had I been
there, I should have asked another question. I am told that Jesus did not
believe in fighting—regardless of the circumstances. Now, if the brave
Samaritan had arrived while the Bedouins were beating the life out of this
unfortunate fellow, what was he supposed to do—join in the defence, or
wait until the robbers had completed their work, and fled?'

Shalum and Justus exchanged looks of inquiry, each inviting the other to
reply.

'Jesus was interested in binding up wounds,' said Justus, solemnly, 'not
in inflicting them.'

'Does that answer your question, sir?' inquired Shalum.

'No,' said Marcellus. 'Perhaps we should go, Justus. It is growing dark.'
They rose. 'The fish was good, Shalum. Let us have another for
breakfast.'

Taking up the little lantern that Shalum had provided, Justus led the way
across the well-kept grounds to the tent, where he lighted their larger one
and hung it to the centre pole. Marcellus unlaced his sandal-thongs, took off
his belt, and lounged on his cot, his eyes following Justus as he made his
bed. He resumed the conversation, asking:

'And then what happened after Thomas looked at the wounds?'

'Benyosef filled a supper-plate, and offered it to Jesus,' said Justus,
sitting down on the edge of his cot. 'There was a piece of broiled fish, a
small loaf, and some honey in the comb. And Jesus took it, and ate.'

'Not just a spirit then,' commented Marcellus.

'I don't know,' mumbled Justus, uncertainly. 'He ate it, or some of it.
The day was fading fast. Philip suggested that the lamps be lighted. Andrew,
who was near the door to an adjoining room, went out and returned with a
taper. Old Benyosef held up a lamp and Andrew lighted it. Jesus was not
there.'

'Vanished?' Marcellus sat up.

'I don't know. It was getting dark in there. He might have gone out
through the door. But nobody heard it open or close.'

'Had he come in through the door?'

'I don't know. I didn't hear it. The first I knew, he was standing there
beside Thomas. And then—when the lamp was lighted—he wasn't
there.'

'What do you suppose became of him?'

'I don't know.' Justus shook his head.

There was a long silence.

'Ever see him again?' asked Marcellus.

Justus nodded.

'Once more,' he said, 'about a month afterwards. But in the meantime, he
was seen up here in Galilee. A very unfortunate thing happened on the night
Jesus was tried. When they had him before old Annas, Simon was waiting in the
courtyard where the legionaries had built a fire. A servant-girl said to
Simon, "Aren't you a friend of this Galilean?" And Simon said, "No, I don't
know him."'

'But I thought Simon was leader among the disciples,' remarked
Marcellus.

'That's what made it so bad,' sighed Justus. 'Ordinarily, Simon is a bold
fellow, with plenty of courage. But he certainly did himself no credit that
night. He followed along, at a distance, when they took Jesus to the Insula,
and waited, across the street, while the trial was held. I don't know where
he went after the procession started out toward the place of execution, or
where he spent the night and the next day. I heard him confess it all. He was
sick with remorse, and hurried back home.'

'So Simon wasn't present on that first occasion when the disciples thought
they saw Jesus.'

'No, but Jesus told them to be sure and tell Simon.'

'Did Jesus know that Simon had denied his friendship?'

'Oh, yes, he knew. You see that's why he was so anxious to have Simon know
that everything was all right again. Well, the next morning, the Zebedee
brothers and Thomas decided to take old Bartholomew home. He had been sick.
They put him on a donkey and set out for Galilee, where they found Peter,
restless and heartsore, and told him what had happened. He was for rushing
back to Jerusalem, but they counselled him to wait; for the news of Jesus'
return was being noised about, and the priests were asking questions. And
Benyosef's shop was being watched. So that night, they all went fishing. In
the early morning, at sunrise, they left off and sailed toward the east
shore. Bartholomew said that when they were within about two hundred cubits
of the beach, chilled and drowsy from their long night on the water, they
were suddenly roused by a loud shout and a splash. Simon had jumped overboard
and was swimming. They all leaped up to see what had come over Simon. And
they saw Jesus standing at the water's edge, waiting. It was a very tender
meeting, he said, for Simon had been quite broken-hearted.'

'And then'—Marcellus's voice was impatient—'did he vanish, as
before?'

'Not at once. They broiled fish for breakfast on the beach. He sat and
talked with them for about an hour, showing special attention to Simon.'

'What did he talk about?'

'Their future duties,' replied Justus, 'to remember and tell the things he
had taught. He would come back, he said, though he could not tell them the
day or the hour. They were to be on the alert for his coming. After they had
eaten, someone suggested that they return to Capernaum. They had beached the
boat, and all hands—except Jesus—fell to work, pushing off into
the water. Bartholomew was up in the bow, rigging a sail. The others
scrambled over the side and shipped the oars. When they looked about for
Jesus, he was nowhere to be seen.'

'But he appeared again—another time?'

'The last time he was seen,' said Justus, 'I was present. It was on a hill
top in Judea, a few miles north of Jerusalem. Perhaps I should tell you that
the disciples and other friends of Jesus were closely watched, through those
days. Such meetings as we had were late in the night and held in obscure
places. In Jerusalem, the Temple people had the legionaries of the Insula
patrolling the streets in search of us. Up here in Galilee, Herod Antipas and
Julian the Legate had threatened death to anyone who so much as spoke Jesus'
name.'

'They too believed that he had returned to life?'

'Perhaps not. I don't know. But they knew they had failed to dispose of
him. They thought the people would soon forget and settle down to their old
ways; but it soon appeared that Jesus had set some forces in
motion—'

'I don't understand,' broke in Marcellus. 'What forces?'

'Well, for one thing, the Temple revenues were falling off. Hundreds of
people, accustomed to paying tithes, stayed away from the synagogues whose
priests had persecuted Jesus. There was no violence; but in the market-places
throughout all Judea, Samaria, and Galilee, merchants who had thought to win
favour with the authorities by denouncing Jesus found that their business was
failing. The Christians were patronizing one another. It was apparent that
they were in collusion and had a secret understanding. An edict was published
prohibiting any assembly of Jesus' adherents. We agreed among ourselves to
hold no more meetings until such time as it might be more prudent.'

'How many Christians were there in Jerusalem, at that time?' asked
Marcellus. 'A score, perhaps?'

'About five hundred that had declared themselves. One afternoon, about
five weeks after the crucifixion, Alphaeus came to my house saying that Simon
had called a meeting. A week hence, we were to assemble shortly after sunrise
on a hill, quite off the highway, where we had often spent a day of rest when
Jesus was with us. Knowing it was dangerous to be seen on the roads in
company with others of our belief, we journeyed singly. It was a beautiful
morning. As I came to the well-remembered footpath that led across the fields
toward the hills, I saw, in the early dawn-light, several men preceding me;
though I could identify none but Simon, who is a tall man. As the slope grew
steeper, I overtook old Bartholomew leaning on his staff, already tired and
labouring for breath.'

'He had walked all that way from Capernaum?' asked Marcellus.

'And had spent the whole week at it,' said Justus. 'But it seemed that the
hill would be too much for him. I counselled him not to try; that his heart
might fail him; but he wouldn't listen. So I gave him an arm and we trudged
along slowly up the winding path that became more difficult with every turn.
Occasionally we had glimpses of the others, widely separated, as they climbed
the rugged hill. We were about halfway up when Bartholomew stopped, pointed
with his staff, and hoarsely shouted, "Look you! On the rock!" I looked
up—and there he was! He was wearing a white robe. The sunshine made it
appear dazzling. He was standing on the big white rock—at the
summit—waiting.'

'Were you amazed?'

'No, not amazed; but eager to press on. Bartholomew urged me to leave him.
He would manage alone, he said. But the good old man was half-dead with
weariness, so I supported him the rest of the way. When at last we came out
on the little plateau in a shady grove, we saw Jesus. He was standing, with
both arms outstretched in a gesture of blessing. The disciples were kneeling
about his feet. Simon, with his great hands covering his face, had bowed over
until his head nearly touched the ground. Poor old Bartholomew, much moved
and thoroughly spent, couldn't take another step. He fell to his knees. So
did I, though we were at least a hundred cubits from the others. We bowed our
heads.'

Justus's voice broke, and for a moment he was overcome with emotion.
Marcellus waited silently for him to regain his self-control.

'After a while,' continued Justus, thickly, 'we heard the murmuring of
voices. We raised our eyes. He was gone.'

'Where, Justus? Where do you think he went?' asked Marcellus, huskily.

'I don't know, my friend. I only know that he is alive—and I am
always expecting to see him. Sometimes I feel aware of him, as if he were
close by.' Justus smiled faintly, his eyes wet with tears. 'It keeps you
honest,' he went on. 'You have no temptation to cheat anyone, or lie to
anyone, or hurt anyone—when, for all you know, Jesus is standing beside
you.'

'I'm afraid I should feel very uncomfortable,' remarked Marcellus, 'being
perpetually watched by some invisible presence.'

'Not if that presence helped you defend yourself against yourself,
Marcellus. It is a great satisfaction to have someone standing by—to
keep you up to your best.' Justus suddenly rose to his feet, and went to the
door of the tent. A lantern was bobbing through the trees.

'Someone coming?' inquired Marcellus, sitting up.

'A legionary,' muttered Justus.

'News of Demetrius, perhaps.' Marcellus joined Justus at the tent-door. A
tall legionary stood before them.

'The Legate presents his compliments,' continued the legionary, in formal
tones, 'and desires his excellent friend, Tribune Marcellus, to be his guest
to-night at the fort. If it is your wish, you may accompany me, sir, and I
shall light your way.'

'Very good,' said Marcellus. 'I shall be ready in a moment. Tarry for me
at the gate.'

The legionary raised his spear in a salute and marched away.

'Apparently Demetrius is safe!' exclaimed Marcellus, brightly.

'And I have betrayed my people!' moaned Justus, sinking down on his cot.
'I have delivered my friends into the hands of their enemies!'

'No, Justus, no!' Marcellus laid a hand on his shoulder. 'All this may
seem disquieting to you, but I assure you I am not a spy! It is possible I
may befriend you and your people. Wait for me here. I shall return by midday
to-morrow.'

Justus made no response; he sat dejectedly, with his face in his hands,
until Marcellus's footsteps faded away. It was a long night of agony and
remorse. When the first pale blue light appeared, the heavy-hearted Galilean
gathered up his few belongings; made his way to the silent street, and
trudged along, past the old fort, to the plaza. For a long time, he sat on
the marble steps of the synagogue, and when the sun had risen he proceeded to
the little house where he had left Jonathan.

Thomas's mother was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

'You are early,' she said. 'I was not expecting you so soon. I hope all is
well with you,' she added, searching his troubled face.

'I wish to be on the road as soon as may be,' he replied.

'But where is your young Roman, and your little pack-train?'

'They are remaining here,' said Justus. 'Jonathan and I are going
home.'

Paulus had been in command of the fort at Capernaum only a
week, but he already knew he wasn't going to like the place.

For a dozen years he had been hoping to get out of Minoa. It was a
disgrace to be stationed there, and the Empire meant you to realize that an
appointment to this fort was a degradation.

The buildings were ugly and shabby, the equipment bad, the climate
abominable. No provision had ever been made for an adequate water-supply. On
the sun-blistered grounds there wasn't a tree, a flower, or a blade of grass;
not even a weed. The air was always foul with yellow, abrasive dust. You
couldn't keep clean if you wanted to, and after a few months at Minoa you
didn't care.

The garrison was lazy, surly, dirty, and tough. With little to do, except
occasional brief and savage raids on the Bedouins, discipline was loose and
erratic. There were no decent diversions; no entertainment. When you couldn't
bear the boredom and discomfort another minute, you went down to Gaza and got
drunk, and were lucky if you didn't get into a bloody brawl.

As for that vicious old city, was not Gaza known throughout the world for
the squalor of its stinking kennels, where the elderly riff-raff of a
half-dozen quarrelsome races screamed imprecations, and the young scum
swapped unpleasant maladies, and the hapless stranger was stripped and robbed
in broad daylight? Gaza had her little imperfections; there was no doubt
about that. But she had docks and wharves and a spacious harbour. Little
coastal ships tied up to her piers; bigger ships lay at anchor in her bay.
You strolled down to watch them come and go, and felt you were still in
contact with the outside world. Sometimes ships' officers would come out to
the fort for a roistering evening; sometimes military men you had known in
Rome would visit you while their vessel took on cargo.

Paulus's unexpected appointment to Capernaum had been received with
hilarious joy. He had never been there, but he had heard something about its
quiet charm. Old Julian had been envied his post.

For one thing, the fort was within a half-hour's ride of Tiberias, that
ostentatious seat of the enormously wealthy sycophant, Herod Antipas. Paulus
had no reason for thinking he was going to like him: he had nothing but
contempt for these provincial lickspittles who would sell their own sisters
for a smile from some influential Roman; but Herod frequently entertained
interesting guests who, though they might despise him, must make a show of
honouring his position as Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea.

And Capernaum, everyone said, was beautiful; ringed by green hills, with
snow-capped mountains in the distance. There was a lovely inland sea. The
people were docile. They were reputed to be melancholy over the execution of
their Jesus, but they were not violently resentful. Doubtless that problem
would solve itself if you gave it time. Old Julian's tactics—listening
at the keyholes of cottages for revolutionary talk, the posting of harsh
edicts, floggings and imprisonments—what did they accomplish but to
band these simple, harmless people together for mutual sympathy? Of course,
if the foolhardy fishermen persisted in making a nuisance of their cult, you
would have to punish them, or get yourself into trouble with Herod. That's
what you would be there for—to keep the peace.

Now that you were here, you had much more peace than you had bargained
for. Had the gods ever ordained such quiet nights? Paulus had not fully
appreciated this oppressive silence for the first day or two. There was the
novelty of settling into his immeasurably better quarters. He proudly
inspected the trim pleasure-craft that Herod had placed at the disposal of
the Legate. He luxuriated in the well-equipped baths, thinking kindly of old
Julian whom he had never had any use for.

The fort buzzed with activity. A fairly large contingent from Minoa had
accompanied Paulus. There had been the usual festivities at the Insula in
Jerusalem during Passover Week—though Paulus had been moody and
taciturn, anxious to have done with it, and move on. His retinue had come
along to Capernaum, for his defence on the journey as well as to dignify his
inauguration. A generous dinner had been served after the ceremonies, to
which Herod (represented by a deputy) had contributed lavish supplies of
potent wine. It was a noisy night. Heads had been cracked, noses flattened,
more urgent arguments had been settled with knives. Paulus had filled the
courtroom with battered celebrants; had crowded the guardhouse; had stormed
and shouted oaths new to the local legionaries; and, well pleased with his
first day's duties, had gone to bed tight as a drum.

Next day, the Minoa contingent had left for home—all but Sextus. At
the last minute, Paulus (with a premonition of loneliness) had told Sextus to
remain, at least for a time. And when the last of them had disappeared, a
strange quietness settled over the fort. That night, after Sextus had ambled
off early to bed, Paulus sat by his window watching the moonlight on the
lake. Except for Sextus's snoring, the silence was profound. Perhaps it had
been a mistake to retain Sextus. He wasn't very good company, after all.

What did one do for diversion in Capernaum? The little town was sound
asleep. The Herod family was away. Tiberias was dead as a doornail. If this
was a sample of life at Capernaum, you had been better off at Minoa.

The days trudged along, scraping their sandal-heels; sitting down, now and
then, for a couple of hours, while Time remained standing. Paulus, strolling
in the courtyard, paused before the sundial, read its laconic warning,
'Tempus fugit,' and sourly remarked to Sextus, 'It's apparent that old Virgil
never visited Capernaum.'

After a week, Paulus was so restless that he even thought of contriving
some errand to Jerusalem, though his recent visit there had been lacking in
interest. Perhaps that was because the insufferable young Quintus, who had
been sent by the Crown to reshuffle the Palestinian commands, was too, too
much in evidence. Paulus, who was a good hater, had never despised anybody so
quickly, so earnestly. Quintus was a vain, overbearing, patronizing,
strutting peacock; he was an insolent, ill-mannered puppy; he was a pompous
ass! In short, Paulus didn't like him at all. But Quintus would have sailed
for home by now. Maybe Quintus was what had ailed Jerusalem, this time.

* * * * *

It was late afternoon. The sun was setting. Paulus and Sextus had been
apathetically shaking the old leather dice-cup on the long table in the
courtroom. Sextus yawned cavernously and wiped his eyes.

'If it's bedtime,' yawned Paulus, 'perhaps we'd better light the lamps.'
He clapped his hands. A guard scurried up. Paulus pointed to the lamps. The
guard saluted and made haste to obey. 'Nine,' mumbled the Legate, handing the
dice-cup to his drowsy friend.

At this juncture, old Namius had come in with three dishevelled slaves.
Somewhere, Paulus felt, he had seen that tall Greek. Sextus jogged his
memory. Ah—Demetrius! He had always liked Demetrius, in spite of his
cool superiority. Demetrius was a haughty fellow, but you had respect for
him. Paulus suddenly recalled having seen an announcement, posted at the
Insula in Jerusalem, offering a reward for the capture of a Greek slave
belonging to Tribune Marcellus Gallio. The bulletin said that the Greek had
assaulted a Roman citizen in Athens, and was thought to be in hiding in
Jerusalem. So—here he was. Somebody had gathered him in. But no—a
brief examination revealed that Demetrius had been arrested on suspicion. He
had been loitering; he was shabby; he had money. In prison he had fought the
rascally Syrians who denied him water. So much for that. Then Paulus had
wanted to know about Marcellus, who had been reported crazy—or the next
thing to it—and was delighted to learn that his friend was in the
neighbourhood.

But before he could release Demetrius, he must learn something about this
charge against him. If it were true that he had struck a Roman, and run away,
you couldn't dismiss him so easily. Paulus put them all out, including
Sextus, who didn't like it.

'Demetrius'—Paulus frowned judiciously—'what have you to say
about this report that you are a fugitive; that you struck a Roman citizen in
Athens? That is very serious, you know!'

'Quintus!' shouted the Legate. 'You mean to say you struck Quintus?' He
leaned forward over the desk, eyes beaming. 'Tell me all about it!'

'Well, sir, the Tribune came to the Inn of Eupolis with a message for my
master. While waiting for the reply, he made himself grossly offensive to the
daughter of the innkeeper. They are a highly respected family, sir, and the
young woman was not accustomed to being treated like a common trollop. Her
father was present, but feared to intervene lest they all be thrown into
prison.'

'So you came to the damsel's rescue, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Don't you know you can be put to death for so much as touching a Roman
Tribune?' demanded Paulus, sternly; and when Demetrius had slowly and
remorsefully nodded his head, the Legate's frown relaxed, and he asked, in a
confidential tone, 'What did you do to him?'

'I struck him in the face with my fist, sir,' confessed Demetrius. 'And,
once I had struck him, I knew I had committed a crime punishable by death,
and couldn't make my position any worse, so—'

'No, sir. The Tribune was not expecting that first blow, and was
unprepared for the next one.'

'In the face.' Paulus's eyes were wide and bright.

'Many times, sir,' admitted Demetrius.

'Knock him down?'

'Oh, yes, sir; and held him up by his helmet-strap, and beat his eyes
shut. I was very angry, sir.'

'Yes, I can see that you were.' Paulus put both hands over his suddenly
puffed cheeks and stifled something like a hiccough. 'And then you ran
off?'

'Without a moment's delay, sir. There was a ship sailing. The Captain
befriended me. Tribune Quintus was on board, and would have had me
apprehended, but the Captain let me escape in the small boat at Gaza. From
there I walked to Jerusalem.'

'Didn't the Captain know he could be punished for that?' growled Paulus.
'What was his name?'

'I understand there is a weaver's shop where the leaders of the
Jesus-people meet. What was the name of your weaver?'

'Benyosef, sir.'

'That was the name! And how did you happen to be in that company,
Demetrius? Are you, perhaps, one of these—these—what do they call
them—Christians?'

'Yes, sir,' confessed Demetrius, tardily. 'Not a very good one; but I
believe as they do.'

'You can't!' shouted Paulus. 'You have a good mind! You don't mean to tell
me that you believe all this nonsense—about Jesus returning to life,
and being seen on various occasions!'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius. 'I am sure that is true.'

'But, see here!' Paulus stood up. 'You were out there, that day, and saw
him die!'

'Yes, sir. I am sure he died; and I am sure he is alive.'

'Have you seen him?' Paulus's voice was unsteady.

Demetrius shook his head and the Legate grinned.

'I hadn't thought,' he said, dryly, 'that you could be taken in by such a
story. Men who die do not return. Only fools think so!' Paulus sat down
again, relaxing in his chair. 'But you are not a fool. What makes you believe
that?'

'I heard the story from a man who did see him; a man of sound mind; a man
who does not lie.' Demetrius broke off, though it was evident he would have
said more.

'Very well; go on!' commanded the Legate.

'It did not surprise me very much,' continued Demetrius. 'There never was
a person like that before. Surely you, sir, must have noticed that. He had
something nobody else ever had! I don't believe he was an ordinary man,
sir.'

'How do you mean—not ordinary? Are you trying to say that you think
he was something else than a man? You don't think he was a god!'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius, firmly. 'I think he was—and is—a
god!'

'Nonsense! Don't you know we are locking up people for saying things like
that about this dead Galilean?' Paulus rose impetuously and paced back and
forth behind the long table. 'I mean to let you go, for your master's sake;
but'—he stopped suddenly and shook a warning finger—'you are to
clear out of Galilee, and there's to be no more talk about this Jesus. And if
you ever tell anyone that you told me about your assault on Quintus—
and I learn of it—I'll have you flogged! Do you understand? I'll have
you stripped and lashed with a bull-whip!'

'Then you don't deserve your freedom,' growled Paulus. 'That's why I am
turning you loose—and now you're sorry you did it. And you believe that
dead men come to life. You're crazy!' He clapped his hands, and a guard
stalked in. 'Make this Greek comfortable,' he barked. 'Have the physician
attend to his cuts. Give him a good supper and a bed. He is to be released
from prison.'

Demetrius wincingly brought his arm up in a salute, and turned to
follow.

'One more thing!' rasped Paulus, to the guard. 'When you have finished
with the Greek, return here. I want you to carry a message to Shalum's Inn.
Make haste!'

* * * * *

Marcellus was pleased to observe that Paulus's promotion had not altered
his manner. The easy informality of their friendship was effortlessly
resumed.

A small table had been laid in the Legate's handsomely furnished suite; a
silver cake-tray, a bowl of fresh fruit, a tall flagon of wine. Paulus,
clean-shaven, wearing an expensive white toga and a red silk head-band that
accented the whiteness of his close-cropped hair, was a distinguished figure.
He met his guest in the doorway and embraced him warmly.

'Welcome, good Marcellus!' he exclaimed. 'And welcome to Galilee; though,
if you have been touring about up here, you may be better acquainted with
this province than I.'

'It is a delight to see you again, Paulus!' rejoined Marcellus. 'All my
good wishes for the success and happiness of your new command! It was most
generous of you to send for me.'

With his arm around Marcellus's shoulders, Paulus guided his friend to a
chair by the table, and sauntered to its mate on the other side.

'Come; sit down.' He filled their goblets. 'Let us drink to this happy
meeting. Now you must tell me what brings you into my quiet little
Galilee.'

Marcellus smiled, raised the goblet to the level of his eyes, and bowed to
his host.

'It would take an hour to explain my errand, Paulus,' he replied, sipping
his wine. 'A long story—and a somewhat fantastic one, too. In short,
the Emperor ordered me to learn something more about the Galilean whom we put
to death.'

'A painful business for you, I think,' frowned Paulus. 'I still reproach
myself for placing you in such an unhappy position that night at the
Procurator's banquet. I did not see you again, or I should have tried to make
amends. If it is not too late to say so, I am sorry it happened. I was
drunk.'

'We all were,' remembered Marcellus. 'I bore you no ill-will.'

'But it wasn't drunkenness that ailed you, sir, when you groped your way
out of that banquet-hall. When you put on the dead man's robe, something
happened to you. Even I, drunk as I was, could see that. By the gods!—I
thought you must have sighted a ghost!' Raising his goblet, Paulus drank
deeply; then, shrugging his dour mood aside, he brightened. 'But why revive
unpleasant memories? You were a long time ill. I heard of it and was sad. But
now you are quite recovered. That is well. You are the picture of health,
Marcellus. Drink, my friend! You have hardly tasted your wine; and it is
good.'

'Native?' Marcellus took another sip.

Paulus grinned; then suddenly stiffened to pantomime an attitude of cool
hauteur.

'My eminent patron,' he declaimed, with elaborate mockery, 'my exalted
lord, the ineffable Herod Antipas—Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea,
robber of the poor, foot-washer to any titled Roman that comes within
reach—he sent the wine. And though Herod himself may be a low form of
life, his wine is noble.' Slipping easily out of his august role, Paulus
added, casually, 'I have had no native wine yet. By the way, the country
people have a story that our Jesus once supplied a wedding-party with a rare
vintage that he made by doing some incantations over a water-pot. There are
innumerable yarns of this order. Perhaps you have heard them.'

Marcellus nodded, but did not share the Legate's cynical amusement.

'Yes,' he said, soberly. 'I have heard them. They are very hard to
understand.'

'Understand!' echoed Paulus. 'Don't tell me you have tried to understand
them! Have we not plenty of such legends in Rome—tales that no one in
his right senses gives a second thought to?'

'Yes, I know, Paulus,' agreed Marcellus, quietly, 'and I should want to be
among the last to believe them, but—'

At the significant pause, Paulus stood up, busying himself with refilling
their goblets. He offered the silver cake-tray, which Marcellus declined, and
sat down again with a little gesture of impatience.

'I hope you aren't going to say that these Galilean stories are credible,
Marcellus,' he remarked, coolly.

'This Jesus was a strange man, Paulus.'

'Granted! By no means an ordinary man! He had a peculiar kind of courage,
and a sort of majesty, all his own. But I hope you don't believe that he
changed water into wine!'

'I do not know, Paulus,' replied Marcellus, slowly. 'I saw a child who had
been born with a crippled foot; now as active as any other little boy.'

'How do you know he was born with a crippled foot?' demanded Paulus.

'The whole village knew. There was no reason why they should have invented
the story for my benefit. They were suspicious of me. In fact, the boy's
grandfather, my guide, was reluctant to talk about it.'

'Well, you can be sure there is some reasonable explanation,' rasped
Paulus. 'These people are as superstitious as our Thracian slaves. Why, they
even believe that this man came to life—and has been seen!'

Marcellus nodded thoughtfully.

'I heard that story for the first time about an hour ago, Paulus. It is
amazing!'

'It is preposterous!' shouted Paulus. 'These fools should have contented
themselves with tales of water changed to wine and the magical healing of the
sick.' Paulus drank again, noisily. His ruddy face showed annoyance as he
watched Marcellus absently toying with the stem of his goblet, his eyes
averted. 'You know well enough that the Galilean was dead!' he stormed,
angrily. 'No one can tell you or me that he came to life!' Drawing up the
sleeve of his toga, Paulus tapped his muscular forearm with measuring
fingers, and shrilled, 'I thrust my spear into his chest that deep!'

Marcellus glanced up, nodded, and dropped his eyes again, without comment.
Paulus suddenly leaned forward over the table, and brought his fist down with
a thump.

'By the gods! Marcellus,' he shouted, 'YOU BELIEVE IT!'

There was a tense silence for a long moment. Marcellus stirred and slowly
raised his eyes, quite unruffled by the Legate's outburst.

'I don't know what to believe, Paulus,' he said, quietly. 'Of course my
natural reaction is the same as yours; but—there is a great mystery
here, my friend. If this story is a trumped-up lie, the men who have been
telling it at the risk of their lives are quite mad; yet they do not talk
like madmen. They have nothing to gain—and everything to lose—by
reporting that they saw him.'

'Oh, I'll concede that,' declared Paulus, loftily. 'It's no uncommon thing
for a fanatic to be reckless with his life; but—look you,
Marcellus!—however difficult that is to understand, you can't have a
dead man coming back from his grave! Why, a man who could overcome death,
could—'

'Exactly!' broke in Marcellus. 'He could do anything! He could defy any
power on earth! If he cared to, he might have the whole world for his
kingdom!'

Paulus drank greedily, spilling some of the wine on the table.

'Odd thing to say,' he muttered, thickly. 'There was some talk at his
trial—about his kingdom: remember? Pilate asked him—absurdly
enough, I thought—if he were a king.' Paulus chuckled mirthlessly. 'He
said he was, and it shook Pilate a little, too. Indeed, it stunned everybody,
for a minute; just the cool audacity of it. I was talking with Vinitius, that
night at the banquet, and he said the Galilean explained that his kingdom was
not in the world; but—that doesn't mean anything. Or does it?'

'Well, it certainly wouldn't mean anything if _I_ said it,' replied
Marcellus. 'But if a man who had been out of this life were able to return
from—from wherever he had been—he might conceivably have a
kingdom elsewhere.'

'You're talking rubbish, Marcellus,' scoffed Paulus. 'I'll assist you,' he
went on, drunkenly. 'You are my guest, and I must be polite. If it's
so—that a dead man—with some kind of elsewhere-kingdom—has
come back to life:—mind you, now, I know it isn't so—but if it's
so—I'd rather it were this Jesus than Quintus or Julian or
Pilate—or the half-witted Gaius that old Julia whelped.' He laughed
boisterously at his own absurdity. 'Or old Tiberius! By the gods!—when
crazy old Tiberius dies, I'll wager he stays dead! By the way, do you mean to
go back and tell the old fool this story? He'll believe it, you know, and it
will scare the very liver out of him!'

'Good idea, Paulus,' he remarked. 'If we're going to have a king who knows
how to outlive all the other kings, it might be a great thing for the world
if he were a person of good deeds and not evil ones.'

The Legate's face sobered, and Marcellus, noting his serious interest,
enlarged upon his impromptu idea.

'Consider these tales about Jesus, Paulus. He is reputed to have made
blind men see: there is no story that he made any man blind. He is said to
have changed water into wine; not wine into water. He made a crippled child
walk; he never made any child a cripple.'

'Excellent!' applauded Paulus. 'The kings have been destroyers,
despoilers. They have made men blind, crippled, broken.' He paused, and went
on, muttering half to himself, 'Wouldn't the world be surprised if once it
should have a government that came to the rescue of the blind and sick and
lame? By the gods! I wish this absurd tale about the Galilean were true!'

'Do you mean that, Paulus, or are you jesting?' demanded Marcellus,
earnestly.

'Well,' compromised the Legate, 'I'm as serious as the matter warrants,
seeing it hasn't a leg to stand on.' His forehead wrinkled in a judicial
frown. 'But see here, Marcellus, aren't you going in for this Jesus business
a little too far for your own good?'

Marcellus made no reply, other than an enigmatic pursing of the lips.
Paulus grinned, shrugged, and replenished his goblet. His manner said they
would drop that phase of the subject.

'What else do they say about him, up here in the country?' he asked,
negligently. 'You seem to have been making inquiries.'

'They have a story in Cana,' replied Marcellus, quietly, 'about a young
woman who discovered she could sing. The people think Jesus was responsible
for it.'

'Taught her to sing?'

'No. One day she found that she could sing. They believe he had something
to do with it. I heard her, Paulus. There hasn't been anything quite like it,
so far as I know.'

'Indeed!' enthused Paulus. 'I must tell the Tetrarch. It's part of my
business, you know, to please the old rascal. He may invite her to entertain
one of his banquets.'

'No, Paulus, please!' protested Marcellus. 'This girl has been gently
bred. Moreover, she is a cripple; can't stand up; never leaves the
neighbourhood.'

'He gave her a voice, and left her a cripple, eh?' Paulus grinned. 'How do
you explain that?'

'I don't explain it; I just report it. But I sincerely hope you will say
nothing about her to Herod. She would feel very much out of place in his
palace, if what I have heard about him is correct.'

'If what you've heard is revolting,' commented Paulus, bitterly, 'it's
correct. But if you are so concerned about these Christians, it might be to
their advantage if one of their daughters sang acceptably for the lecherous
old fox.'

'No!' snapped Marcellus, hotly. 'She and her family are friends of mine. I
beg of you not to degrade her with an invitation to meet Herod Antipas or any
member of his household!'

Paulus agreed that they were a precious lot of scoundrels, including
Herod's incorrigible daughter Salome. A dangerous little vixen, he declared,
responsible for a couple of assassinations, and notoriously unchaste. He
chuckled unpleasantly, and added that she had come by her talents honestly
enough, seeing that her father—if he was her father—hadn't even
the respect of the Sanhedrin, and her mother was as promiscuous as a cat. He
snorted contemptuously, and drank to take the taste of them out of his mouth.
Marcellus scowled, but made no comment. Presently he became aware that Paulus
was regarding him with a friendly but reproachful inspection.

'I wonder if you realize, Marcellus,' Paulus was saying, 'that your keen
concern for these Christians might sometime embarrass you. May I talk to you
about that, without giving offence?'

'Why not, Paulus?' replied Marcellus, graciously.

'Why not? Because it may sound impertinent. We are of the same rank. It
does not behove me to give you advice, much less injunctions.'

'Let me explain, then. I assume you know what has been happening in
Palestine during the past year. For a few weeks, after the execution of the
Galilean, his movement appeared to be a closed incident. The leaders of his
party scattered, most of them returning to this neighbourhood. The
influential men of Jerusalem were satisfied. There were sporadic rumours that
Jesus had been seen in various places after his death, but nobody with any
sense took these tales seriously. It was expected that the whole affair would
presently be forgotten.'

'And then it revived,' remarked Marcellus, as Paulus paused to take
another drink.

'Revived is not the word. It hadn't died. Secret groups had been meeting
in many cities. For a few months there were very few outward signs of it. The
authorities had contempt for it, feeling that it was a thing of no
importance, either as to size or quality. Then, one day, it began to dawn on
the priests that their synagogues were not being patronized; the tithes were
not paid. Then the merchants observed that their business was increasingly
bad. In Jericho, more than half of the population now make no secret of their
affiliations. In Antioch, the Christians are quite outspoken, and adding
daily to their numbers. Nor is interest in this party limited to the poor and
helpless, as was at first supposed. Nobody knows how many there are in
Jerusalem, but the Temple is beside itself with anxiety and anger, prodding
the Insula to do something drastic. Old Julian is being harassed by the
priests and merchants, who are making it plain that he must act—or
resign.'

'What does he think of doing about it?' inquired Marcellus.

'Well'—Paulus flicked his hands in a baffled gesture—'it's
obvious that the movement cannot be tolerated. It may look innocuous to a
casual visitor like yourself; but, to the solid respectables of Jerusalem, it
is treason, mutiny, blasphemy, and a general disintegration of their
established ways. Julian doesn't want a bloody riot on his hands, and has
been playing for time; but the city fathers are at the end of their
patience.'

'But surely they can't find much fault with the things Jesus taught,'
interposed Marcellus. 'He urged kindness, fair dealing, good will. Don't the
influential men of Palestine believe in letting the people treat one another
decently?'

'That isn't the point, Marcellus, and you know it,' argued Paulus,
impatiently. 'These Christians are refusing to do business on the old basis.
More and more they are patronizing one another. Why, even here in little
Capernaum, if you don't have the outline of a fish scrawled on the door of
your shop, it doesn't pay you to open up.' He studied his friend's interested
face, and grinned. 'I suppose you know what that fish stands for.'

Marcellus nodded, and smiled broadly.

'No, it isn't a bit funny!' warned Paulus, grimly. 'And I must strongly
counsel you that the less you see of these Christians, the better it will
be'—he checked himself, and finished lamely in a tone almost
inaudible—'for all of us.'

'But for me in particular, I think you mean,' said Marcellus.

'Have it your own way.' Paulus waved his arm. 'I'm not having a good
time—saying these things to you. But I don't want to see you get into
trouble. And you easily could, you know! When the pressure is put on, it's
going to get rough! The fact that you're a Roman Tribune will not count for
much, once the stampede begins! We are going to make war on the Christians,
Marcellus, no matter who they are! Why don't you clear out before you get
into trouble? Take your slave—and go!'

'I do not know where he is,' admitted Marcellus.

'Well, I do,' grinned Paulus. 'He is in bed, somewhere here in the
fort.'

'A prisoner?'

'No, but he ought to be.' The Legate laughingly recounted the afternoon's
revelations. 'By the way,' he ended, 'did you see him destroy Quintus?'

Marcellus, who had been much amused by the recital, shook his head.

'I saw the Tribune shortly afterwards,' he said. 'The work had been well
done, I assure you.'

'It gratified me to hear about it,' said Paulus, 'as I have no respect for
Quintus and his misfortunes do not annoy me; but'—he grew suddenly
serious—'this was no light offence, and may yet have to be settled for.
Your Demetrius is free to go, but I hope he will not linger in this country;
at least, not in my jurisdiction. Nor you, Marcellus! Consider your
predicament: your slave is wanted for assaulting a Tribune; moreover, he is
known to have been in close association with the Christian party in
Jerusalem. He can be apprehended on either count. Now, it may be assumed that
you know all this. In short, you have been harbouring a criminal and a
Christian; and your own position as a friend of the Christians is of no
advantage to you. What do you intend to do about it?'

'I had thought of remaining in Palestine for a few weeks, before
proceeding to Rome,' said Marcellus. 'I have no definite plans.'

'Better have some plans!' advised Paulus, sternly. 'Your situation is more
hazardous than you think. It will do your pious Galilean friends no good to
have you championing their cause. I tell you candidly that they are all in
imminent danger of arrest. I advise you to pack your travel equipment early
in the morning, go quietly across country to Joppa, and take the first ship
that heads for home.'

'Thanks for the counsel, Paulus,' replied Marcellus, non-committally. 'May
I have a word with Demetrius now?'

Paulus frowned darkly and dismissed the request with a gesture of
exasperation.

'The fact that your Greek slave is a superior fellow and your friend,' he
said, crisply, 'does not alter his status in the opinion of my own retinue. I
suggest that you wait until morning to see him.'

'As you like,' said Marcellus, unruffled.

Paulus rose unsteadily.

'Let us retire now,' he said, more cordially, 'and meet for breakfast at
sunrise. Then'—he smiled meaningly—'if you will insist upon
leaving at once, I shall speed you on your way. I shall do better than that:
I shall order a small detachment of legionaries, acquainted with the less
travelled roads, to see you safely to Joppa.'

'But I am not going to Joppa, Paulus,' declared Marcellus, firmly. 'I am
not leaving Palestine until I have fully satisfied myself about this story of
the Galilean's return to life.'

'And how are you to do that?' demanded Paulus. 'By interviewing a few
deluded fishermen, perhaps?'

'That's one way of putting it,' rejoined Marcellus, unwilling to take
offence. 'I want to talk with some of the leaders.'

'They are not here now,' said Paulus. 'The foremost of them are in
Jerusalem.'

'Then I am going to Jerusalem!'

For a moment, Paulus, with tight lips, deliberated a reply. A sardonic
grin slowly twisted his mouth.

'If you start to-morrow for Jerusalem,' he predicted ominously, 'you
should arrive about the right time to find them all in prison.
Then—unless you are more prudent than you appear to be at
present—you will get into a lot of trouble.' He clapped his hands for
the guard. 'Show the Tribune to his room,' he ordered. Offering his hand,
with his accustomed geniality, he smiled and said, 'I hope you rest well. We
will see each other in the morning.'

They entered the city unchallenged two hours before sunset.
The sentries at the Damascus Gate did not so much as bother to ask Marcellus
his name or what manner of cargo was strapped to the tired little donkeys. It
was evident that Jerusalem was not on the alert.

The journey from Capernaum had been made with dispatch, considering the
travellers were on foot. By rising before dawn and keeping steadily at
it—even through the sultry valleys, where the prudent rested in the
shade while the sun was high—the trip had been accomplished in three
days.

Warned by Paulus's grim forecast of drastic action about to be taken
against the Christians, Marcellus had expected to encounter arrogant troops
and frightened people, but the roads were quiet and the natives were going
about their small affairs with no apparent feeling of insecurity. If it were
true that a concerted attack on them had been planned, it was still a
well-guarded secret.

Their leave-taking of Capernaum had been almost without incident. Arriving
early at the tent, they found that Justus had disappeared. Shalum had no
explanation to offer. The mother of little Thomas, when they stopped at her
home to make inquiries, had no more to say than that Justus and Jonathan had
left for Sepphoris an hour ago. Marcellus had a momentary impulse to follow
them and reassure Justus; but, remembering Paulus's injunction that the
Galileans would now be better served if he gave them no further attention, he
proceeded on his way with many misgivings. If was no small matter to have
lost Justus's friendship. He wanted to stop in Cana and have a farewell word
with Miriam, but decided against it.

After supper that first night out (they had camped in a meadow five miles
south-east of Cana) Marcellus had insisted on hearing all about Demetrius's
experiences with the Christians in Jerusalem, especially with reference to
their belief in the reappearance of Jesus. The Greek was more than willing to
tell everything he knew. There was no uncertainty in his mind about the truth
of the resurrection story.

'But, Demetrius, that is impossible, you know!' Marcellus had declared
firmly when his slave had finished.

'Yes, I know, sir,' Demetrius had admitted.

'But you believe it!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, there's no sense to be made out of that!' grumbled Marcellus,
impatiently. 'To admit a thing's impossible, and in the next breath confess
your belief in it, makes your argument very unconvincing.'

'If you will pardon me, sir,' ventured Demetrius, 'I was not arguing. You
asked me: I told you. I am not trying to persuade you to believe in it. And I
agree that what I have been saying doesn't make sense.'

'Then the story is nonsense!' reasoned Marcellus; and after he had given
his slave ample time to reply, he added crisply, 'Isn't it?'

'No, sir,' reiterated Demetrius, 'the story is true. The thing couldn't
happen; but it did.'

Feeling that this sort of conversation didn't have much to recommend it,
Marcellus had mumbled good night and pretended to sleep.

On the next day and the day thereafter, the subject had been discussed on
the road, as profitlessly. Jesus had been seen after his death. Such things
didn't happen; couldn't happen. Nevertheless, he had been seen; not once, but
many times; not by one man only, but by a score. Demetrius was advised that
he was losing his mind. He conceded the point without debate and offered to
change the subject. He was told that he had been duped and deluded, to which
accusation he responded with an indulgent nod and a smile. Marcellus was
thoroughly exasperated. He wanted to talk about it; wanted Demetrius to plead
his case, if he had one, with an air of deep conviction. You couldn't get
anywhere with a man who, when you called him a fool, calmly admitted it.

'I never would have thought, Demetrius,' Marcellus had said, taking pains
to make it sound derisive, 'that a man with as sound a mind as yours would
turn out to be so childishly superstitious!'

'To tell you the truth, sir,' Demetrius had replied, 'I am surprised at it
myself.'

They had been trudging along, with Marcellus a little in advance, stormily
vaunting his indignation over his slave's stubborn imbecility, when it
suddenly occurred to him that he wasn't having it out with
Demetrius—but with himself. He swung about, in the middle of an angry
sentence, and read—in his companion's comradely grin—a
confirmation of his discovery. Falling into step, he walked along in silence
for a while.

'Forgive me, Demetrius,' he said, self-reproachfully. 'I have been very
inconsiderate.'

Demetrius smiled broadly.

'I understand fully, sir,' he said. 'I went through all that, hour after
hour, day after day. It is not easy to accept as the truth something that
one's instinct rejects.'

'Well then,' deliberated Marcellus, 'let us, just for sake of argument,
batter our instincts into silence and accept this, for the moment, as the
truth. Consider the possibilities of a man with a divine personality who, if
he wants to, can walk up to Emperor Tiberius, without fear, and demand his
throne!'

'He will not want to,' rejoined Demetrius. 'If he were that sort of
person, he would have demanded Pilate's seat. No, he expects to come into
power another way; not by dethroning the Emperor, but by inspiring the
people. His rule will not begin at the top. It will begin at the bottom, with
the common people.'

'Bah!' scoffed Marcellus. 'The common people, indeed! What makes you think
they have it in them to set up a just government? Take this weak-spined
little handful of pious fishermen, for example, how much courage is to be
expected of them? Why, even when their Jesus was on trial for his life, they
were afraid to speak out in his defence. Except for two or three of them,
they let him go to his death alone!'

'True, sir,' said Demetrius, 'but that was before they knew he could
overcome death.'

'Yes, but Jesus' ability to overcome death wouldn't make their lives any
more secure than they were before.'

'Oh yes, sir!' exclaimed Demetrius. 'He promised them that they too would
live forever. He said that he had overcome death—not only for himself,
but for all who had faith in him.'

Marcellus slowed to a stop, thrust his thumbs under his belt, and surveyed
his slave with a frown of utter mystification.

'Do you mean to say that these crazy fishermen think they are going to
live forever?' he demanded.

'Yes, sir—forever, with him,' said Demetrius, quietly.

'Ridiculous!' snorted Marcellus.

'It seems so, sir,' agreed Demetrius. 'But if they sincerely believe that,
whether it is true or not will have no bearing on their behaviour. If a man
considers himself stronger than death, he has nothing to fear.'

'Then why are these people in hiding?' asked Marcellus, reasonably enough,
he thought.

'They have their work to do, sir. They must not be too reckless with their
lives. It is their duty to tell the story of Jesus to as many as can be
reached. Every man of them expects to be killed, sooner or later,
but—it won't matter. They will live on—somewhere else.'

'Demetrius, do you believe all this nonsense yourself?' asked Marcellus,
pityingly.

'Sometimes,' mumbled Demetrius. 'When I'm with them, I believe it.' He
tramped on moodily through the dust, his eyes on the road. 'It isn't easy,'
he added, half to himself.

'I should say not!' commented Marcellus.

'But, sir,' declared Demetrius, 'the fact that an idea is not easy to
understand need not discredit it. Are we not surrounded with facts quite
beyond our comprehension?' He stretched a long arm toward the hillside, gay
with flowers. 'We can't account for all that diversity of colour and
form—and we don't have to. But they are facts.'

'Thank you, sir,' grinned Demetrius. 'Now these disciples of Jesus
honestly believe that the world will eventually be ruled by faith in his
teachings. There is to be a universal government founded on good will among
men. Whoever believes and practises this has the assurance that he will live
forever. It isn't easy to believe that one may live forever. I grant you
that, sir.'

'And not much easier to believe that the world could be governed by good
will,' put in Marcellus.

'Now the Emperor,' went on Demetrius, 'rules the world by force. That is
not easy. Thousands of men have to lose their lives to support this form of
government. Germanicus leads an expedition into Aquitania, promising his
Legates riches in captured goods and slaves if they follow and obey him at
the risk of their lives. They take that chance. Many of them are killed and
have nothing to show for their courage. Jesus promises everlasting life as a
reward for those who follow and obey him in his effort to bring peace to the
world. His disciples believe him, and—'

'And take that chance,' interposed Marcellus.

'Well, sir, it isn't a more hazardous chance than the legions take who
follow Germanicus,' insisted Demetrius. 'This faith in Jesus is not easy, but
that doesn't make it nonsense—if you will pardon my speaking so
freely.'

'Say on, Demetrius!' approved Marcellus. 'You are doing well, considering
what kind of material you have to work with. Tell me, do you, personally,
expect to live on here forever, in some spectral form?'

'No.' Demetrius shook his head. 'Somewhere else. He has a kingdom—
somewhere else.'

'And you truly believe that!' Marcellus studied his slave's sober face as
if he had never seen it before.

'Sometimes,' replied Demetrius.

Neither had anything to say for a while. Then, coming to an abrupt halt,
the Greek faced his master with an expression of self-confidence.

'This faith,' he declared deliberately, 'is not like a deed to a house in
which one may live with full rights of possession. It is more like a kit of
tools with which a man may build him a house. The tools will be worth just
what he does with them. When he lays them down, they will have no value until
he takes them up again.'

* * * * *

It was nearly sundown when Demetrius arrived at the shop of Benyosef, for
much time had been consumed in the congested streets on the way to the inn
where Marcellus had stopped on his previous visit to Jerusalem. The travel
equipment and Galilean purchases had to be unloaded and stored. The man who
owned the donkeys had to be paid off. Marcellus was eager for a bath and
fresh clothing. Having made his master comfortable and having attended to his
own reconditioning, Demetrius had set off to find Stephanos.

Since his course led directly past Benyosef's, he decided to look in, for
it was possible that his friend was still at work. The front door was closed
and bolted. Going around to the side door which admitted to the family
quarters, he knocked; but there was no response. This seemed odd, for the
aged Sarah never went anywhere, and would surely be here at supper-time.

Perplexed, Demetrius hastened on to the shabby old house where he had
lodged with Stephanos. Here, too, the doors were locked and apparently
everyone was gone. A short distance up the street, a personable young Jew,
John Mark, lived with his widowed mother and an attractive young cousin,
Rhoda. He decided to call there and inquire, for Stephanos and Mark were
close friends, though he had often wondered whether it wasn't the girl that
Stephanos went to see.

He found Rhoda locking the high wicket-gate and preparing to leave with a
well-filled basket on her arm. She greeted him warmly, and Demetrius noted
that she was prettier than ever. She seemed to have matured considerably in
his absence.

'Where is everybody?' he inquired, after a brief account of the closed
houses he had visited.

'Oh, don't you know?' Rhoda handed him the basket and they moved toward
the gate. 'We all have supper together now. You must come with me.'

'Who have supper together?' wondered Demetrius.

'The Christians. Simon began it many weeks ago. They leased the old
building where Nathan had his bazaar. We all bring food every evening, and
share it. That is,' she added, with an impatient little shrug, 'some of us
bring food—and all of us share.'

'It doesn't sound as if it was much fun,' observed Demetrius.

'Well'—Rhoda tossed her curly head—'it hasn't turned out as
Simon had expected.'

They were walking rapidly, Demetrius taking long strides to keep pace with
the nimble steps that seemed to be beating time for some very vigorous
reflections. He decided not to be too inquisitive.

'How is Stephanos?' he asked, with a sly smile that Rhoda tried
unsuccessfully to dodge.

'You will see him presently,' she replied, archly. 'Then you may judge for
yourself.'

'Rhoda'—Demetrius sounded at least sixty—'these pink cheeks
tell me that something has been going on here since I left. If this means
what I think, I am happy for both of you.'

'You know too much, Uncle Demetrius,' she retorted, with a prim smile.
'Can't Stephen and I be friends without—'

'No. I don't think so,' interjected Demetrius. 'When is it going to be,
Rhoda? Will I have time to weave a tablecloth for you?'

'A little one.' She flashed him a bright smile.

Promising that he would borrow a loom and begin work early in the morning,
if his master could spare him the time, Demetrius found his curiosity
mounting in regard to these daily suppers.

'How many people come?' he asked.

'You will be surprised! Three hundred or more. Many have disposed of their
property in the country and are living here now; quite a colony of them. At
least a hundred take all their meals at the Ecclesia.'

'The Ecclesia,' repeated Demetrius. 'Is that what you call it? That's
Greek, you know. Most of you are Jews, are you not? How did you happen to
call your headquarters the Ecclesia?'

'It was Stephen,' said Rhoda, proudly. 'He said it was a suitable name for
such an assembly. Besides, fully a third of the Christians are Greeks.'

'Well, it's a comfort to see the Jews and Greeks getting together on
something,' remarked Demetrius. 'Just one big, happy family, eh?' he added,
with some private misgivings.

'It's big enough: no question about that!' murmured Rhoda; and then,
making hasty amends for this comment, she continued, 'Most of them are deeply
in earnest, Demetrius. But there are enough of the other kind to spoil
it.'

'Quarrelling, are they? I'm afraid they won't get very far with this new
idea that what the world needs is good will.'

'That's what Stephen says,' approved Rhoda. 'He is very disappointed. He
thinks this whole business—of having all the Christians live
together—is a mistake. He believes they should have stayed at home and
kept on with their daily work.'

'What's the rumpus about?' Demetrius couldn't help asking.

'Oh, the same old story,' sighed Rhoda. 'You Greeks are stingy and
suspicious and over-sensitive about your rights, and—'

'And you Jews are greedy and tricky,' broke in Demetrius, with a grin.

'We're NOT greedy!' exclaimed Rhoda.

'And we Greeks are not stingy!' retorted Demetrius. They both laughed.

'That's a good little picture of the rumpus,' said Rhoda. 'Poor Simon. He
had such high hopes for the Ecclesia. I was so sorry for him, last night, I
could have cried. After supper he gave us a serious talk, repeating some of
the words of Jesus about loving one another, even those who mistreat us; and
how we were all the children of God, equal in his sight, regardless of our
race. And—if you'll believe it—even while Simon was speaking, an
old man from the country, named Ananias, got up and stamped out!'

Demetrius could think of no appropriate comment. It gave him a sickish
feeling to learn that so lofty an ideal had fallen into such disrepute in the
hands of weak people. Rhoda sensed his disappointment.

'But please don't think that Simon is held lightly,' she went on. 'He has
great influence. The people believe in him! When he walks down the street,
old men and women sitting at their windows beg him to stop and talk with
them. Stephen says they even bring out their sick ones on cots so that he may
touch their foreheads as he passes. And Demetrius, it's wonderful how they
all feel toward Stephen, too. Sometimes I think that if anything ever
happened to Simon—' Rhoda hesitated.

'Stephen might be the leader?' asked Demetrius.

'He is big enough for it!' she declared. 'But don't tell him I said that,'
she added. 'He would think it a great misfortune if anything happened to
Simon.'

They were nearing the old bazaar now. Several women were entering with
baskets. A few men loitered about the open door. No legionaries were to be
seen. Apparently the Christians were free to go and come as they pleased.

Rhoda led the way into the large, bare, poorly lighted room, crowded with
men, women, and children, waiting beside the long tables on which food was
being spread. Stephanos advanced with a welcoming smile.

'Adelphos Demetrius!' he exclaimed, extending both hands. 'Where did you
find him, Rhoda?'

'He was looking for you.' Her tone was tenderly possessive.

'Come, then,' he said. 'Simon will want to see you. You're thin, my
friend. What have they been doing to you?'

Demetrius flinched involuntarily as Stephanos squeezed his arm.

'A little accident,' he explained. 'It's not quite healed.'

'How did you do it?' asked Rhoda. 'You've a cut on your wrist too; a bad
one!'

Demetrius was spared the necessity of replying, Stephanos coming to his
rescue with a little pantomime of pursed lips and a slight shake of his head
for Rhoda's benefit.

'You were fighting, I think,' she whispered, with a reproving grin.
'Christians don't fight, you know.' Impishly puckering a meaningful little
smile at Stephanos, she added, 'They don't even fret about things.'
Preoccupied, Stephanos missed this sally, and beckoned to Demetrius to follow
him.

* * * * *

Conversation on the way back was forced and fragmentary. John Mark and his
mother walked on ahead. The tall Greeks followed on either side of Rhoda, who
felt dwarfed and unimportant, for it was evident, by their taciturnity, that
they wanted to be alone with each other. She did not resent this. She was so
deeply in love with Stephanos that anything he did was exactly right, even
when he so plainly excluded her from his comradeship with Demetrius.

After a hasty good night at Mark's gate, the Greeks sauntered down the
street toward their lodgings, silently at first, each waiting for the other
to speak. Stephanos's steps slowed.

'Well, what did you think of it?' he demanded, bluntly. 'Tell me
truly.'

'I'm not quite sure,' temporized Demetrius.

'But you are!' snapped Stephanos. 'You have seen our Christian Ecclesia in
action. If you are not quite sure, that means you think we have taken the
wrong road!'

'Very well,' consented Demetrius, with an indulgent chuckle. 'If that's
what I think, why not go on and tell me what YOU think? You've had a better
chance to form an opinion. I haven't seen your Ecclesia do anything
yet—but eat. What else is it good for? I'm bound to say, Stephanos,
that if I were selecting a company of people to engage in some dangerous
tasks requiring endless faith and courage, I might have skipped a few who
were present to-night.'

'There you are!' lamented Stephanos. 'That's what is wrong. Jesus commands
us to carry on his work, no matter at what cost in privation, pain, and
hazard of life; and all we've accomplished is a free boarding-house and
loafing-place for anybody who will say, "I believe."'

'Doubtless Simon's intentions were good,' observed Demetrius, feeling that
he was expected to make some comment.

'Excellent!' agreed Stephanos. 'If everybody connected with the Ecclesia
had the bravery and goodness of Simon Peter, the institution might develop
great power. You see, at the beginning, what he wanted was a close-knit body
of men who would devote their full time to this work. He thought they could
inspire one another if they lived together. You remember how it was at the
shop, Demetrius, the disciples spending hours in conference. Simon wanted to
increase this circle, draw in other devoted men, and weld them together in
spirit and purpose.'

'And made the circle a little too large?' suggested Demetrius.

Stephanos came to a halt, and moodily shook his head.

'The whole plan was unsound,' he said, disconsolately. 'Simon announced
that any Christian might sell his property and bring the proceeds to the
Ecclesia, with the promise that his living would be provided for.'

'No matter how much or how little he had?' queried Demetrius.

'Right! If you owned a farm or a vineyard, you sold it—probably at a
sacrifice—and brought Simon the money. If you had nothing but a few
chickens, a milk-goat, and a donkey, you came with the money you'd got from
that. And all would live together in brotherly love.'

Gloomily Stephanos recited the misadventures of this unhappy experiment.
The word had quickly spread that any Christian family could insure its living
by joining the Ecclesia. There was no lack of applicants. Simon had rejoiced
to see the large number of people who professed to be Christians. At an
all-night conference in Benyosef's shop, Simon had been almost beside himself
with happiness. The kingdom was growing!

'That night,' continued Stephanos, 'it was decided that Simon should
remain to oversee our Ecclesia. The others were to see how nearly ready the
Christians were to attempt similar projects in Joppa, Caesarea, Antioch, and
other good-sized cities. So they scattered; John, James, Philip, Alphaeus,
Matthew—' Stephanos made an encircling gesture that included all the
rest of them. 'Simon is impetuous, you know. When he captures an idea, he
saddles and bridles it and rides away at a gallop!'

'And the Ecclesia grew!' assisted Demetrius.

'In numbers—yes! Large families, with next to nothing, moved in to
live in idleness, lustily singing hymns and fervent in prayer, but hardly
knowing what it was all about, except that they had three meals a day and
plenty of good company.'

'And how did the other people like it, the ones who had owned considerable
property?'

'Well, that was another problem. These people began to feel their
superiority over the indigents. The more money you had contributed to the
Ecclesia, the more right you thought you had to dictate the policies of the
institution.' Stephanos smiled unhappily. 'Only this morning, one arrogant
old fellow, who had been impudent and cross over something Simon had said,
was discovered to have cheated in his dealings with the Ecclesia, and when
Simon confronted him with it, he went into such a mad rage that he had a
stroke. Died of it! And Simon will probably get the blame for it.'

'It must be very discouraging,' said Demetrius.

'That isn't all!' sighed Stephanos. 'This daily supper! Many merchants are
coming to these meetings now—bringing their food along; I must give
them credit for that—but quite clearly patronizing the Ecclesia to make
friends for business reasons. In short, the Ecclesia is becoming too, too
popular!'

'What's to be done about it?' Demetrius wanted to know.

Stephanos moved on slowly, shaking his head.

'Demetrius, until this Ecclesia began to take in boarders, the Christian
community in Jerusalem was a force to reckon with. Men continued their
gainful occupations, careful to deal honestly and charitably, eager to live
according to Jesus' commandments, and talking of his way of life to all who
would give heed. And in the evening they would assemble to hearten one
another. Simon would stand up and challenge them to greater efforts. He would
repeat the words of Jesus, and renew their strength. He was magnificent!'
Stephanos stopped again and faced his friend sadly. 'You heard him
to-night—squandering his splendid energies in wheedling a lot of
selfish, bickering people to forget their little squabbles and stop nagging
one another. Did you notice that weak, solicitous smile on his face as he
entreated them to be more generous with their gifts to the Ecclesia? Well,
that wasn't Simon! That wasn't the Simon who fired the hearts of the men who
used to meet in the night to repledge their all to the cause of our Christos!
It is a disgrace!' Stephanos clenched both hands in his tousled hair and
shook his head hopelessly. 'Is it for this,' he cried, 'that Jesus suffered
on the cross—and died—and rose again?'

'Have you talked with Simon about it?' asked Demetrius, after a discreet
interval.

'Not lately. A couple of weeks ago, when it became evident there was going
to be an open ruction between the Jews and Greeks, several of us inquired
whether we could do anything to help him, and he appointed seven of us to
oversee the fair apportioning of food and clothing; but, Demetrius, my
feeling for Jesus and his worth to the world is a sort of exalted passion
that can't bring itself down to the low level of listening patiently to
ill-mannered quarrels over whether Bennie Issacher was given a better coat
than little Nicolas Timonodes.'

Demetrius snorted his sympathetic disgust and suggested that his friend
would do well to keep away from such annoyances.

'I mean to do just that!' declared Stephanos. 'I made a decision to-night.
I'm not going back there, any more!'

'It is possible,' said Demetrius, 'that Julian may soon solve the
Ecclesia's difficulties. Had you heard anything about an attack? My master
thinks the Christians are presently to be set upon by the Insula.'

Stephanos laughed bitterly.

'If the Procurator waits a little while, the Ecclesia will destroy itself,
and save him the bother. But, tell me, how does your Roman master feel about
Jesus, now that he has been in Galilee?'

'Much impressed, Stephanos. He finds it difficult to believe that Jesus
came to life again, but he considers him the greatest man who ever lived. He
wants to talk with you. He was deeply touched when you asked to see the robe,
and were so moved by the sight of it.'

'He still has it, I suppose,' murmured Stephanos. 'Do you think he would
let me see it again, Demetrius? So much has happened, lately, to depress me.
Do you know, my friend, that when I touched the robe, that night, it—it
did something for me! I can't explain it, but—'

'Let us go to the inn!' said Demetrius, impetuously. 'Now! He will still
be up, and glad to see you. I think you need to have a talk with each
other.'

'Are you sure he won't think it an intrusion?' asked Stephanos,
anxiously.

'No, he will welcome you. It will be good for you both.'

Once the decision was made, Stephanos set the pace with long, determined
strides.

'Are you going to tell the Tribune about the Ecclesia?' he asked.

'By no means!' declared Demetrius. 'I believe that Marcellus is on the way
to becoming a Christian. He is infatuated with the story of Jesus, and talks
of nothing else. If he decides to be a Christian, he will be a good one and a
brave one; you can depend on that! But we mustn't expose him to things that
might disgust him. If he knew that some of his companions in this cause were
mere quarrelsome idlers, he might not want to debase himself.'

'Those are hard words, my friend,' said Stephanos.

'It gave me no pleasure to say them,' rejoined Demetrius. 'But I know the
Tribune very well. It is true he has been brought up as a pagan, but he is
particular about the company he keeps.'

* * * * *

They found Marcellus alone and reading. He greeted them warmly, showing an
instant interest in Stephanos, who was ready with an apology for the untimely
call.

'There is no one I would rather see, Stephanos,' he said, cordially,
offering him a chair. 'You sit down too, Demetrius. You men have had a
pleasant reunion, I think.'

'Did you have an interesting journey in Galilee, sir?' asked Stephanos,
rather shyly.

'Interesting—and bewildering,' replied Marcellus. 'Justus was a good
guide. I heard many strange stories. It is difficult to believe
them—and difficult not to believe them.' He paused, his expression
inviting a rejoinder; but Stephanos, at a disadvantage in the presence of
this urbane Roman, merely nodded, with averted eyes.

'I was greatly attracted by old Nathanael Bartholomew,' went on
Marcellus.

'Yes,' said Stephanos, after a tongue-tied interval.

Demetrius, growing restless, thought he would come to his timid
compatriot's rescue.

'I think Stephanos would like to see the robe, sir,' he suggested.

'Gladly!' agreed Marcellus. 'Will you find it for him, Demetrius?'

After some moments in the adjoining room, during which time Marcellus and
Stephanos sat silent, Demetrius returned and laid the folded robe across his
friend's knees. Stephanos gently smoothed it with his finger-tips. His lips
were trembling.

'Would you like to be alone for a little while?' asked Marcellus, softly.
'Demetrius and I can take a walk in the garden.'

Stephanos gave no sign that he had heard. Gathering the robe up into his
arms, he glanced at Marcellus and then at Demetrius, with a new light of
assurance in his eyes.

'This was my Master's robe!' he announced, in confident tones, as if
delivering a public address. 'He wore it when he healed the sick and
comforted the sorrowing. He wore it when he spoke to the multitudes as no man
has ever spoken. He wore it when he went to the cross to die—for ME, a
humble weaver!' Stephanos boldly searched Marcellus's astonished face. 'And
for YOU—a wealthy Tribune!' He turned toward Demetrius. 'And for
YOU—a slave!'

Marcellus leaned forward on the arms of his chair, baffled by the suddenly
altered manner of the Greek who had thrown aside his reticence to declare his
faith in such resonant tones.

'You killed my Lord, Tribune Marcellus!' went on Stephanos, boldly.

'Stephanos! Please!' entreated Demetrius.

Marcellus held up a cautioning hand toward his slave.

'Proceed, Stephanos!' he commanded.

'It was forgivable,' went on Stephanos, rising to his feet, 'for you did
not know what you were doing. And you are sorry. The Temple and the Insula
killed him! And they did not know what they were doing. But they are not
sorry—and they would do it again, to-morrow!' He took a step toward
Marcellus, who rose from his chair, and stood, as one receiving an order.
'You, Tribune Marcellus Gallio, can make amends for what you have done! He
forgave you! I was there! I heard him forgive you! Make friends with him! He
is alive! I have seen him!'

Demetrius was at his elbow now, murmuring half-articulate entreaties.
Gently taking the robe from him, he tugged him back to his chair. They all
sat down, and there was a long moment when no one spoke.

'Forgive me, sir,' said Stephanos, contritely. He clumsily rubbed the back
of a nervous hand across his brow. 'I have been talking too freely.'

There was a long, constrained silence which no one seemed disposed to
break. Stephanos rose.

'It is late,' he said. 'We should go.'

Marcellus held out his hand.

'I am glad you came, Stephanos,' he said, soberly. 'You are welcome to
come again.... Demetrius, I shall see you here in the morning.'

* * * * *

Badly shaken and perplexed, Marcellus sat for an hour staring at the wall.
At length, he was overcome by the day's fatigue. Stretching out on his bed,
he fell asleep. Shortly before dawn he was roused by hoarse cries and shrill
screams accompanied by savage commands and thudding blows. It was not
unusual, at an inn, to be annoyed at almost any hour of the day by loud
lamentations signifying that some hapless kitchen-slave was being flogged;
but this pandemonium, which seemed to emanate from the courtyard below,
sounded as if the whole establishment was in trouble.

Marcellus pushed his long legs over the edge of his bed, walked to the
window, and looked down. Instantly he knew what was happening. Julian's
threatened day of wrath had arrived. A dozen legionaries, in full battle
equipment, were clubbing the household slaves into a corner of the courtyard.
Evidently other troops were inside, chasing their quarry out. The entire
lower floor was in confusion. There were blows and protestations, scuffling
of feet, splintering of door-panels. Presently there was a scurry of sandals
on the stairs. Marcellus's door was thrown open.

'Who are you?' bawled a brutish voice.

'I am a Roman citizen,' replied Marcellus, coolly. 'And you would do well,
fellow, to show better manners when you enter the room of a Tribune.'

'We have no manners to-day, sir,' retorted the legionary, with a brief
grin. 'We are searching for Christians.'

'Indeed!' growled Marcellus. 'And does Legate Julian think these poor,
harmless people are important enough to warrant all this racket at
daybreak?'

'The Legate does not tell me what he thinks, sir,' the legionary retorted,
'and it is not customary for ordinary troops to ask him. I am obeying orders,
sir. We are rounding up all the Christians in the city. You are not a
Christian, and I am sorry I have disturbed you.' He was retreating into the
hall.

'Stay!' shouted Marcellus. 'How do you know I am not a Christian? Can't a
Roman Tribune be a Christian?'

The legionary chuckled, shrugged, tugged off his heavy metal helmet, and
wiped his dripping forehead with a swipe of his rough sleeve.

'I've no time for jesting, sir, if the Tribune will excuse me.' He resumed
his helmet, saluted with his spear, and stamped down the hall.

The cries outside were subsiding now. Apparently the evacuation had been
completed. A terrified group of slaves had huddled against the area wall,
nursing their bruises. Apart from them a little way stood a few shabbily
clad, frightened guests. The ageing wife of Levi, the innkeeper, hovered
close to them. She was pale, and her head kept jerking up involuntarily with
some nervous quirk. Marcellus wondered whether she did that all the time or
only when she was badly scared.

The tall, handsome Centurion marched forward, faced the victims, shouted
for silence, drew out an impressive scroll to its full length, and in a dry
crackle read an edict. It was pompously phrased. There was to be no further
assembling of the blasphemers who called themselves Christians. There was to
be no further mention, in public or private, of the name of Jesus the
Galilean, who had been found guilty of treason, blasphemy, and offences
against the peace of Jerusalem. This edict was to be considered the first and
last official warning. Disobedience would be punishable by death.

Rolling up the scroll, the Centurion barked an order, the detachment
stiffened, he stalked toward the street, they fell in behind him. After a
moment, one old retainer, with blood oozing through the sparse white hair on
his temple and trickling down over his bare shoulder, quietly crumpled into a
shapeless heap. A slave-girl of twenty stooped over him and cried aloud. A
bearded Greek bent down and listened with his ear against the old man's
chest. He rose and shook his head. Four of them picked up the limp body and
moved off slowly toward the servants' quarters, most of the others trudging
dejectedly after them. The innkeeper's wife turned slowly about. Her head was
bobbing violently. She pointed to a fallen broom. A limping slave with a
crooked back took up the broom and began ineffectively sweeping the tiled
pavement. Except for him, the courtyard was empty now. Marcellus turned away
from the window, scowling.

'Brave old Julian!' he muttered. 'Brave old Roman Empire!'

He finished his dressing and went below. Levi met him at the foot of the
stairs with much bowing and fumbling of hands. He hoped the Tribune had not
been disturbed by all the commotion. And would he have his breakfast served
at once? Marcellus nodded.

'We will have less trouble with these Christians now,' declared Levi, to
assure his Roman guest that his sympathies were with the Insula.

'Had they been causing you trouble?' asked Marcellus, negligently.

Levi hunched his shoulders, spread out his upturned fingers, and
smirked.

'It is enough that their sect is in disfavour with the Government,' he
parried, discreetly.

'That wasn't what I asked you,' growled Marcellus. 'Have these Christians,
who were being knocked about here this morning, given you any cause for
complaint? Do they steal, lie, fight? Do they get drunk? Are they brawlers?
Tell me—what sort of people are they?'

'Blasphemy? Rubbish!' snarled Marcellus. 'What does the Insula know or
care about blasphemy? What is it that these people blaspheme, Levi?'

'They have no respect for the Temple, sir.'

'How could they, when the Temple has no respect for itself?'

Levi shrugged a polite disapproval, though he still smiled weakly.

'The religion of our people must be protected, sir,' he murmured,
piously.

Marcellus made a little grimace and sauntered out into the sunny arcade
where he found, laying his breakfast table, the slave-girl who had been so
deeply grieved over the old man's death in the courtyard. Her eyes were red
with weeping, but she was going about her duties competently. She did not
look up when Marcellus took his seat.

'Was that old man related to you?' he asked, kindly.

She did not reply. Sudden tears overflowed her eyes and ran down her
cheeks. In a moment she moved away, obviously to return to the kitchen for
his breakfast. Levi strolled toward his table.

'How was this girl related to the old man they killed?' asked
Marcellus.

'He was her father,' said Levi, reluctantly.

'And you are making her still serve the table?'

Levi's shoulders, elbows, eyebrows, and palms came up in a defensive
gesture.

'Well—it is her regular task, sir. It is not my fault that her
father was killed.'

Marcellus rose, and regarded his host with cool contempt.

'And you prate about your religion! What a mean fellow you are, Levi!' He
strode toward the door.

'But, please, sir!' begged Levi. 'I myself shall serve you! I am sorry to
have given offence!' He toddled off toward the kitchen. Marcellus, angrily
returning to his table, wondered if the loathsome creature would slap the
girl for unwittingly creating an awkward incident.

* * * * *

Demetrius had risen at daybreak so that he might have time to do an errand
at the Ecclesia before going on to attend his master at the inn. He had tried
to dress without waking his friend who, he knew, had spent a restless night;
but Stephanos roused and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

'I'll see you this evening,' whispered Demetrius, as if his companion were
still asleep and shouldn't be wakened. 'Shall I meet you here?'

'At the Ecclesia,' mumbled Stephanos.

'Thought you weren't going there any more.'

'I can't let good old Simon down, Demetrius. He is alone, now that the
other disciples are away on missions.'

Tiptoeing out of the house, Demetrius walked rapidly toward the Ecclesia,
where he hoped to have a private word with Simon. It had seemed almost
disloyal not to take counsel with Stephanos about this, but Marcellus had
insisted upon secrecy. He wanted an interview with Simon. Demetrius was to
arrange for it, if he could. There had been no opportunity to ask Simon, last
night. Perhaps he would have a better chance to see him alone this morning
before the day's activities began.

The Ecclesia was already astir. Cots were being folded up and put away to
make room for tables. Tousled, half-dressed children of all sizes were racing
about, babies were crying, old men were crouching in out-of-the-way corners,
scowling meditatively as they stroked their patriarchal beards. The women
were bustling back and forth between the kitchen at the rear and the
breakfast tables which their men were setting up. Demetrius approached the
nearest group and inquired for Simon. One of them glanced about, and pointed.
Simon was standing by a window, quite apart from the others, brooding over a
tattered scroll. Even in this relaxed posture there was something majestic
about this huge Galilean. If only he had a suitable setting and a courageous
constituency, thought Demetrius, Simon would have great weight. The man was
of immense vitality and arresting personality, a natural leader. Not much
wonder the people wanted him to lay his hands upon their sick.

'He that went into Galilee with Justus?' queried Simon. 'To look for
homespun—or so he said.'

'My master did acquire a large quantity of homespun, sir,' said
Demetrius.

'And what else?' asked Simon, in his deep voice.

'He became much interested in the life of Jesus, sir.'

'I think he had that before he went,' rumbled Simon, studying Demetrius's
eyes. 'I think that was why he went.'

'Yes, sir,' conceded Demetrius. 'That was his real object in going to
Galilee. He is deeply concerned—but full of questions. At present he is
at Levi's inn. May I tell him you will talk with him, in private?'

'I will talk with him, on the morrow, at mid-afternoon,' said Simon. 'And
as he desires privacy, let him come to me in the refuse-field, north of the
city, the place they call Golgotha. There is a path through the field which
leads to a knoll in the centre of it.'

'I know where it is, sir.'

'Then show him the way. Bid him come alone.' Simon rolled up the scroll;
and, inattentive to Demetrius's murmured thanks, walked toward the tables.
There was a whispered demand for silence, and the confusion ceased, except
for the crying of a baby. Those who were seated rose. In a powerful, resonant
voice, Simon began to read:

'The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light. They that
dwell in the shadow of death, upon them the light shines. For unto us a child
is born. Unto us a son is given. The government shall be upon his
shoulder.'

There was a clamour at the entrance, and all eyes turned apprehensively.
Crisp commands were being shouted. The frightened people did not have long to
wait in anxiety. The doors burst open, and a whole company of legionaries
marched in, deploying fanwise as they advanced. With their spears held
horizontally, breast-high, they moved rapidly forward, pushing the terrified
Christians before them. Some of the older ones fell down in their excitement.
They were ruthlessly prodded to their feet and shoved on in the wake of the
scurrying pack that was massing against the rear wall.

Demetrius, who had remained near the window quite apart from the
residents, found himself in the position of a spectator. The troops swept on
relentlessly. Simon, a towering figure, stood his ground. He was alone, now,
all the others having huddled at the wall. The Centurion shouted an order,
and the company halted. He strode arrogantly toward Simon and faced him with
a sardonic grin. They were of the same height, both magnificent specimens of
manhood.

'Are you, then, the one they call The Fisherman?' demanded the
Centurion.

'I am!' answered Simon, boldly. 'And why are you here to break up a
peaceful assembly? Has any one of us committed a crime? If so, let him be
taken for trial.'

'As you wish,' snapped the Centurion. 'If you want to be tried for
blasphemy and treasonable utterances, the Procurator will accommodate you....
Take him away!'

Simon turned about and faced his desperate people. 'Be of good cheer!' he
shouted. 'Make no resistance! I shall come back to you!'

'That you will not!' broke in the Centurion. In obedience to a sharp
command and a sweep of his sword, two burly legionaries leaped forward,
caught Simon by the arms, whirled him about, and started for the door. The
company pressed forward toward the defenceless crowd. The Centurion called
for silence. Pale-faced women nervously cupped their hands over the mouths of
their screaming children. An edict was read. By order of the Procurator,
there was to be no further assembling of the blasphemers who called
themselves Christians.

Demetrius began slowly edging his way along the wall in the direction of
the front door. He caught fragments of the Centurion's announcement. This
building was to be vacated immediately. Anyone found on the premises
hereafter would be taken into custody. The name of Jesus, the blasphemer and
traitor, was never again to be spoken.

'Away with you now!' yelled the Centurion. 'Back to your homes! and do not
inquire for your Fisherman! You will not see him any more!' As he neared the
door, realizing that the speech had ended and the troops would be promptly
moving out, Demetrius speeded his going, ran to the street and crossed it,
dodged into a narrow alley, pursued it to the next street, slowed to a brisk
walk, and proceeded to Levi's inn. Everything was quiet there. He entered and
moved toward the stairway leading to Marcellus's quarters. Levi, observant,
called him back.

'Your master is out,' he said.

'Do you know where he went, sir?' inquired Demetrius, anxiously.

'How should I?' retorted Levi.

Thinking that Marcellus might have left instructions in his room,
Demetrius asked and was granted permission to go upstairs. A Greek slave-girl
was putting the room to rights. She recognized him and smiled shyly. Informed
of his errand, she joined in the search for a message.

'Did you see my master this morning?' asked Demetrius.

She shook her head.

'We had much trouble here, a little while ago,' she said.

Demetrius pressed her for particulars, and she told him what had occurred.
He went to the window and stood for a long moment, looking out, trying to
imagine what might be Marcellus's reaction to this cruel business. He would
be very angry, no doubt. He would want to do something about it, perhaps. It
was not inconceivable that Marcellus might go to Julian and remonstrate. The
more Demetrius deliberated on this possibility, the more reasonable it
seemed. It would be an audacious thing to do, but Marcellus was impetuous
enough to attempt it. After all, the word of a Tribune should have some
weight.

He turned about and met the Greek girl's eyes. They were friendly but
serious. Glancing cautiously toward the open door, she moved closer to him
and whispered, 'Are you one of us?'

Demetrius nodded soberly, and she gave him an approving smile. With a
sudden burst of interest in her duties, she began folding and patting the
blankets on the bed, as if suspicious that she might be found idling.

'Better stay off the streets to-day,' she said, softly, out of the corner
of a pretty mouth. 'Go down to the kitchen. You'll be safe there.'

'Thanks,' said Demetrius. 'That's not a bad idea. Besides, I'm hungry.' He
was crossing the room. The girl laid her hand on his sleeve as he passed
her.

'Does your master know you are one of us?' she whispered.

Demetrius was not sure how this question should be answered, so he gave
her an enigmatic smile which she was free to interpret as she chose, and left
the room. The ever-present Levi met him at the foot of the stairs and
unexpectedly informed him that it was a fine morning.

'Beautiful!' agreed Demetrius, aware that the Jew was sparring for
news.

'Had your master left instructions for you?' asked Levi, amiably.

'I am to have my breakfast, sir, and await his return.'

'Very good,' said Levi. 'Go to the kitchen. They will serve you. He
followed as far as the door. 'I suppose everything was quiet on the streets
this morning.'

'It was still quite early, sir, when I left my lodgings,' replied
Demetrius, unhelpfully.

After his breakfast of bread, milk and sun-cured figs, he paced restlessly
up and down the small area bounded by the servants' quarters. Nobody seemed
inclined to talk. The girl who had served him was crying. He resolved to
stroll over to the Insula and wait outside. Something told him that Marcellus
was there. Where else could he be?

* * * * *

Having finished his breakfast, which Levi himself had served with a
disgusting show of servility, Marcellus began to be apprehensive about the
safety of Demetrius, who, he felt, should have arrived by this time unless he
had encountered some trouble.

He did not know where Stephanos lived, but they could tell him at
Benyosef's shop. Then it occurred to him that Benyosef's might have been
visited by the legionaries. Doubtless they knew it was a meeting-place of the
disciples of Jesus, and might be expected to deal severely with anyone found
there. Prudence suggested that he keep out of that storm-centre. If Demetrius
had been arrested, it would be sensible to wait until order had been
restored. Then he could learn where his slave was, and make an effort to have
him released.

The obsequious Levi helped him to a decision. Marcellus was stalking up
and down in the courtyard, feverishly debating what to do, when the Jew
appeared in the doorway, obviously much interested in his guest's
perturbation. Levi did not say anything; just stood there slowly blinking his
brightly inquisitive eyes. Then he retreated into the little foyer and
emerged a moment later carrying a chair, as to say that if the Tribune knew
what was good for him to-day, he would stay where he was and avoid getting
into trouble. Marcellus scowled, lengthened his stride, and, without a
backward glance, marched down the steps to the street.

To reach Benyosef's shop, it was necessary to traverse a few blocks on the
rim of the congested market district where the shabby hovels of the very poor
huddled close to the reeking alleys. Here there was much excitement, frantic
chatter, and gesticulations. Marcellus slowed his steps near one vociferous
group of slatternly people and learned that the Christians' meeting-place had
been invaded, emptied, and locked up. The leaders had been dragged off to
prison. Simon the Fisherman was to be beheaded.

Marcellus quickened his pace. A little way down the street, in the
vicinity of Benyosef's shop, a crowd had gathered. At the edge of it,
apparently waiting for orders, ranged a company of legionaries, negligently
leaning on their spears. Someone in the middle of the crowd was making an
impassioned speech. In a moment Marcellus had drawn close enough to recognize
the voice.

It was Stephanos. Bareheaded, and in the brown tunic he wore at his loom,
he had evidently been dragged out for questioning; and from the sullen
silence of the throng, it was to be inferred that these people were willing
to wait patiently until the reckless Greek had incriminated himself.

Taller than most, Marcellus surveyed the spectators with curiosity to
discover what manner of men they were. Instantly he divined the nature of
this audience. They were well dressed, for the most part, representing the
more substantial element from the business district. There was a sprinkling
of younger priests, too. The face of the crowd was surly, but everybody was
listening in a tense silence.

Stephanos was not mincing his words. He stood there boldly, in the open
circle they had formed about him, his long arms stretched out in an appeal to
reason—but by no means an appeal for mercy. He was not defiant, but he
was unafraid.

It was no rabble-rousing speech addressed to the emotions of ignorant men,
but a scathing indictment of Jerusalem's leaders who, Stephanos declared, had
been unwilling to recognize a cure for the city's distresses.

'You have considered yourselves the Chosen People!' he went on,
audaciously. 'Your ancestors struggled out of one bondage into another,
century after century, ever looking for a Deliverer, and never heeding your
great teachers when they appeared with words of wisdom! Again and again,
inspired leaders have risen among your people, only to be thwarted and
reviled—not by the poor and needy, but by such as YOU!'

A concerted growl rumbled through the angry crowd.

'Which of the prophets,' demanded Stephanos, 'did your fathers not
persecute? And now you have become the betrayers—and murderers—
of the Just One!'

'Blasphemer!' shouted an imperious voice.

'You!' exclaimed Stephanos, sweeping the throng with an accusing hand,
'you, who claim to have received your law at the hands of angels—how
have YOU kept it?'

There was an infuriated roar, but no one moved to attack him. Marcellus
wondered how much longer the suppressed fury of these maddened men would
tolerate this rash excoriation.

From far back on the fringe of the crowd, someone hurled a cobblestone. It
was accurately thrown and struck Stephanos on the cheekbone, staggering him.
Instinctively he reached up a hand to wipe away the blood. Another stone,
savagely hurled by a practised hand, crashed against his elbow. A loud
clamour rose. For an instant, Marcellus hoped it might be a protest against
this lawless violence, but it was quickly evident that the hoarse shouts were
in denunciation of the speech, and not the stoning. A vengeful yell gave
sinister applause to the good aim of another stone as it struck the Greek
full in the face. Two more, not so well thrown, went over Stephanos's head
and drove into the crowd. Trampling upon one another, the dignitaries on the
other side of the open circle scurried for cover against the walls and
fences. Stephanos, shielding his bleeding head with his arms, backed away
slowly from the hostile crowd, but the stones kept coming.

The Centurion barked an order now and the legionaries sprang into action,
ploughing roughly through the pack, tossing men right and left, with utter
disregard of their importance. Marcellus, who had been standing beside a tall
soldier, followed him through, and was surprised to see him jab his elbow
into the face of a stocky priest whose ponderous dignity hadn't permitted him
to move swiftly enough. Now the legionaries were lined up inside the
semicircle of spectators. They had made a fence of their spears. The stones
were coming faster now, and with telling effect. Marcellus began to realize
that this was no impulsive, impromptu incident. The better citizens were not
throwing stones, but without doubt they had planned that the stones should be
thrown. The men who were doing it were expert.

Stephanos was down now, on his elbows and knees, trying to protect his
head with one bleeding hand. The other arm hung limp. The crowd roared.
Marcellus recognized that bestial cry. He had heard it many a time in the
Circus Maximus. He pushed his way on to the side of the tall legionary who,
after a glance in his direction, made room for him.

Several of the younger men in the shouting multitude now decided to take a
hand in the punishment. The Centurion pretended not to notice when they
dodged under the barricade of spears. Their faces were deeply flushed and
contorted with rage. There was nothing more they could do to Stephanos, who
had crumpled on the ground, but perhaps the stones they threw were to be
merely tokens of their willingness to share the responsibility for this
crime.

Marcellus's heart ached. There had been nothing he could do. Had Julian
been there, he might have protested, but to have denounced the Centurion
would have done no good. The fellow was obeying his orders. Poor Stephanos
lay dead, or at least unconscious, but the dignitaries continued to stone
him.

Immediately in front of Marcellus, on the other side of the barrier, stood
a young, bookish man, wearing a distinctive skull-cap with a tassel,
evidently a student. He was of diminutive stature, but sturdily built. His
hands were clenched and his rugged face was twisted with anger. Every
thudding stone that beat upon the limp body had his approval. Marcellus
studied his livid face, amazed that a man of his seeming intelligence could
be so viciously pleased by such an exhibition of inhuman brutality.

Presently a fat man in an expensive black robe, ducked through the line,
took off his robe, and tossed it to the short one, bidding him hold it.
Another man of lofty dignity followed his friend in; and, handing his robe
also to the bow-legged scholar, began clawing up a stone from the
pavement.

Marcellus, towering over the short-legged fellow, leaned forward and
demanded, sternly, 'What harm had he done to YOU?'

The little man turned about and glanced up impudently into Marcellus's
eyes. He was a malicious creature, but no fool. It was a face to be
remembered.

'He is a blasphemer!' he shouted.

'How does the crime of blasphemy compare with murder?' growled Marcellus.
'You seem to be a learned man. Perhaps you know.'

'If you will come to the Rabbinical School to-morrow, my friend,' replied
the little man, suddenly cooled by the prospect of airing his theology, 'I
shall enlighten you. Ask for Saul, of Tarsus,' he added, proudly. 'I am a
Roman citizen, like yourself, sir.'

There were no stones flying now. The crowd was growing restless. The young
theologian handed back the robes he had held and was shouldering out through
the loosening throng. The legionaries were still maintaining their barricade,
but were shifting their weight uneasily as if impatient to be off. The
Centurion was soberly talking, out of the corner of his mouth, to a
long-bearded Jew in an impressive black robe. The multitude was rapidly
dispersing.

Marcellus, with brooding eyes fixed on the broken body of the gallant
Greek, thought he saw a feeble movement there. Stephanos was slowly raising
himself on one elbow. A hush fell over the people as they watched him rise to
his knees. The blood-smeared face looked up, and the bruised lips were parted
in a rapturous smile. Suddenly Stephanos raised his arm aloft as if to clutch
a friendly hand.

'I see him!' he shouted, triumphantly. 'I see him! My Lord Jesus—
take me!' The eyes closed, the head dropped, and Stephanos crumpled down
among the stones.

The spectators, momentarily stunned, turned to go. Men did not pause to
ask questions. They scurried away as if frightened. Marcellus's heart was
pounding and his mouth was dry. But he found himself possessed of a curious
exaltation. His eyes were swimming, but his face trembled with an involuntary
smile.

He turned about and looked into the bewildered eyes of the tall
legionary.

'That was a strange thing, sir!' muttered the soldier.

'More strange than you think!' exclaimed Marcellus.

'I would have sworn the Greek was dead! He thought he saw someone coming
to rescue him!'

'That Galilean is not dead, my friend!' declared Marcellus. 'He is more
alive than any man here!'

Thoroughly shaken, his lips twitching with emotion, Marcellus moved away
with the scattering crowd. His mind was in a tumult. At the first corner, he
turned abruptly and retraced his steps. Nobody was interested in Stephanos
now. The troops from the Insula, four abreast, were disappearing down the
street. None of the friends of the intrepid Greek had yet ventured to put in
an appearance. It was too soon to expect any of them to take the risk.

Dropping to one knee beside the battered corpse, Marcellus gently drew
aside the matted hair and gazed into the impassive face. The lips were still
parted in a smile.

After a long time, old Benyosef hobbled out of the shop. His eyes were red
and swollen with weeping. He approached diffidently, halting a few steps
away. Marcellus looked up and beckoned to him and he came, pale with fright.
Stooping over, with his wrinkled hands bracing his feeble knees, he peered
into the quiet face. Then he searched Marcellus's eyes inquisitively, but
without recognition.

'It was a cruel death, sir,' he whimpered.

'Stephanos is not dead!' declared Marcellus. 'He went away with
Jesus!'

'I beg of you, do not mock our faith, sir!' pleaded Benyosef. 'This has
been a sad day for us who believe in Jesus!'

'But did he not promise you that if you believe in him, you will never
die?'

'Jesus may never come for me, Benyosef,' he said, quietly, 'and he may
never come for you—but he came for Stephanos! Go, now, and find a
younger man to help me. We will carry the body into your shop.'

Still pale with fright, the neighbours gathered about the mangled form of
Stephanos as it lay on the long table in Benyosef's workroom. All were
crying. Rhoda's grief was inconsolable. Some of the men regarded Marcellus
with suspicion that he might be there to spy upon them. It was no time to
explain that he felt himself one of them. Presently he was aware of Demetrius
at his elbow, and importuned him to stay and be of service.

Taking Benyosef by the arm, he led the tearful old man into the corner
behind his loom.

'There is nothing I can do here,' he said, laying some gold coins in the
weaver's hands. 'But I have a request of you. When Justus comes again to
Jerusalem, tell him I saw Stephanos welcomed into Jesus' kingdom, and am
persuaded that everything he told me, in Galilee, is the truth.'

* * * * *

It had been a long day for Simon, sitting there heavily manacled in the
darkness. At noon they had brought him some mouldy bread and a pitcher of
water, but he had not eaten; he was too heartsick for that.

For the first hour after his incarceration, derisive voices from adjoining
cells had demanded to know his name, his crime, and when he was to die. With
noisy bravado, they jested obscenely about their impending executions, and
taunted him for being too scared to speak. He had not answered them, and at
length they had wearied of reviling him.

The wooden bench on which he sat served also as a bed. It was wider than
the seat of a chair, and Simon could not rest his back against the wall. This
unsupported posture was fatiguing. Sometimes he stretched his huge frame out
on the bench, but with little ease. The wall was damp, as was the floor. Huge
rats nibbled at his sandals. The heavy handcuffs cut his wrists.

He thought that he could have born these discomforts and the threat of a
death sentence with a better fortitude had he been able to leave behind him a
determined organization to carry on the work that had been entrusted to him.
Obviously he had blundered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to establish the
Ecclesia. Maybe the time had not come for such a movement. He had been too
impatient. He should have let it grow, quietly, unobtrusively, like yeast in
meal, as Jesus had said.

What, he wondered, would become of the Christian cause now, with all of
them scattered and in hiding? Who would rise up as their leader? Philip? No;
Philip was a brave and loyal fellow, but he lacked boldness. The leader would
have to be audacious. John? No. James? No. They had the heart for it, but not
the voice. There was Stephen. Stephen might do it—but not in Jerusalem.
The Jews would insist on an Israelite, as perhaps they should; for the
Christian heritage was of the Hebrew people.

Why had the Master permitted this dreadful catastrophe? Had he changed his
plans for the prosecution of his work? Had he lost confidence in the leader
he had appointed? Simon's memory reconstructed the eventful day when Jesus
had said to him, 'Simon—I shall call you Peter, Peter the Rock! I shall
build on this Rock!' Simon closed his eyes and shook his head as he compared
the exultation of that moment with the utter hopelessness of his present
plight.

When night fell, a guard with a flickering torch noisily unlocked each
cell in turn and another replenished the water-pitcher. Noting that his bread
had not been eaten, the guard did not give him any more; nor did he offer any
comment. Perhaps it was not unusual for men, awaiting death, to take but
little interest in food.

At feeding time there had been much rattling of chains and scuffling of
feet, but everything was quiet now. Simon grew drowsy, sank back
uncomfortably with his head and shoulders against the old wall, and slept.
After a while, he found himself experiencing a peculiar dream, peculiar in
that it didn't seem like a dream, though he knew it was, for it couldn't be
real. In his dream, he roused, amazed to find that the manacles had slipped
from his hands and were lying open on the bench. He lifted his foot. The
weight was gone. He drew himself up and listened. Everything was quiet but
the rhythmic breathing of his fellow prisoners. He had never had a dream of
such keen vividness.

Simon stood up and stretched his long arms. He took three or four short
steps toward the cell-door, slipping his sandals along the stone floor as he
felt his way in the darkness. There was no sound of the scuffing of his
sandals on the flagging. Except for this, the dream was incredibly real. He
put out his hand and touched the heavy, nail-studded door. It noiselessly
retreated. He advanced his hand to touch the door again. It moved forward. He
took another step—and another. There had never been such a dream! Simon
was awake and could feel his heart pounding, and the rapid pulse-beat in his
neck; but he knew he was still asleep on the bench.

He put his hand against the damp wall and moved on with cautious steps
that made no sound. At the end of the long corridor, a feeble light showed
through the iron bars of a door. As he neared it the door swung open so
slowly and noiselessly that Simon knew the thing was unreal! He walked
through with firmer steps. In the dim light he saw two guards sitting on the
floor, with their arms around their knees and their heads bent forward in
sleep. They did not stir. He proceeded toward the massive entrance gates,
recognizing the ponderous lock that united them. He expected his dream to
swing them open, but they had not moved. He put his hand on the cold metal,
and pushed, but the heavy gates remained firm.

By this he knew that the dream was over, and he would rouse to find
himself manacled in his cell. He was chilly. He wrapped his robe more tightly
about him, surprised that he still had the unimpeded use of his hands. He
glanced about, completely bewildered over his strange mental condition.
Suddenly his eye lighted on a narrow gate, set within one of the greater
gates. It was open. Simon stepped through, and it closed behind him without a
sound. He was on the street. He started to walk briskly. At a crossing, he
stumbled against a kerb in the darkness. Surely this rough jar would waken
him. Simon stood still, looked up at the stars, and laughed softly for joy.
He was awake! He had been delivered from prison!

What to do now? Where to go? With lengthened steps, he made his way to
Benyosef's, where all was dark. He moved on to the home of John Mark. A frail
light showed from an upstairs window. He tapped at the high wicket gate.
After a little delay, the small window in the gate was opened and he saw the
frightened face of Rhoda.

She screamed and fled to the open house-door.

'It is Simon!' he heard her shout. 'Simon has returned from the dead!'

Rushing back to the gate, she unbolted it and drew it open. Her eyes were
swollen with weeping, but her face was enraptured. She threw her arms around
Simon, hugging him fiercely.

'Simon!' she cried. 'Jesus has brought you back from death! Did you see
Stephen? Is he coming too?'

'Is Stephen dead, Rhoda?' asked Simon, sadly.

Her grip relaxed, and she collapsed into a dejected little figure of
hopeless grief. Simon raised her up tenderly and handed her over to Mark's
mother.

'We heard they had killed you,' said Mark.

'No,' said Simon. 'I was delivered from prison.'

They moved slowly into the house, Rhoda weeping inconsolably. The place
was crowded with Christians. Their grieving eyes widened and their drawn
faces paled as Simon entered, for they had thought him dead. They made way
for him in silence. He paused in the midst of them. Some great experience had
come to Simon. He had taken on a new dignity, a new power. Slowly he raised
his hand and they bowed their heads.

'Let us pray,' said Peter the Rock. 'Blessed be God who has revived our
hope. Though in great heaviness for a season, let us rejoice that this trial
of our faith—more precious than gold—will make us worthy of
honour when our Lord returns.'

* * * * *

After walking up and down on the other side of the street facing the
Insula for an hour or more, Demetrius's anxiety overwhelmed his patience. He
must have been mistaken in his surmise that Marcellus would visit Julian
himself on behalf of the persecuted Christians.

Abandoning his vigil, he made off rapidly for Benyosef's shop. While still
a long way off, he began meeting well-dressed, sullen-faced men, apparently
returning from some annoying experience. When he saw the sunshine glinting on
the shields of an approaching military force, Demetrius dodged into an alley,
and continued the journey by a circuitous route.

In spite of the edict prohibiting any further assembly of Christians,
fully a score were crowded into the shop, silently gathered about a dead
body. To his amazement, Demetrius saw his master in the midst of the people,
almost as if he were in charge. He shouldered his way through the sorrowing
group. Rhoda was down on her knees before the body, sobbing piteously. It
seemed very unreal to find Stephanos, with whom he had talked only a few
hours ago, lying here broken and dead.

Marcellus had taken him aside, when he had regained his composure.

'You remain with them, Demetrius,' he had said. 'Assist them with the
burial. My presence here is an embarrassment. They cannot account for my
interest, and are suspicious. I am going back to the inn.'

'Did you see this happen, sir?' Demetrius had asked.

'Yes.' Marcellus drew closer and said confidentially, 'And much more
happened than appears here! I shall tell you—later.'

After they had put poor Stephanos away—and no one had molested them
while on their errand—Demetrius had returned home with John Mark,
thinking he would be free presently to rejoin Marcellus at the inn. But
Mark's mother, Mary, and Rhoda, too, had insisted so urgently on his
remaining with them that he dared not refuse. When their unwanted supper had
been disposed of and darkness had fallen, friends of the family began to
arrive singly and by twos and threes until the lower rooms were filled. No
one acted as spokesman for the pensive party. There was much low-voiced
conversation about a vision that appeared to Stephen before he died, but none
of them had been close enough to know exactly what had happened. Demetrius
had not attached much significance to the rumours. The only one who felt
confident was Rhoda.

And then, to the astonishment of everyone, Simon had arrived; a more
important, more impressive figure than he had been before. He seemed
reluctant to tell the details of his release from prison; but, by whatever
process that had come to pass, the experience had fortified Simon. He even
seemed taller. They all felt it, and were shy about initiating conversation
with him; hesitant about asking questions. Oddly enough, he had quietly
announced that henceforth they should call him Peter.

Beckoning John Mark apart, Demetrius had suggested that they ask Simon
Peter to lodge there. As for himself, he would cheerfully surrender his room
and return to the inn. So it had been arranged that way and Demetrius had
slipped out unobtrusively. It was nearing midnight when he tapped at
Marcellus's door, finding him awake and reading. They had talked in whispers
until daybreak, their master-slave relationship completely ignored in their
earnest discussion of the day's bewildering experiences.

'I too am a Christian!' Marcellus had declared, when he had finished his
account of the stoning of Stephanos, and it seemed to Demetrius that the
assertion had been made with more pride than he had ever put into 'I am a
Roman!' It was very strange, indeed, this complete capitulation of Marcellus
Gallio to a way of belief and behaviour so foreign from his training and
temperament.

Early in the afternoon, Demetrius accompanied him to the edge of the
disreputable field that was called Golgotha. They were quiet as they
approached it. Acrid smoke curled lazily from winnows of charred refuse. In
the distance a grass-covered knoll appeared as a green oasis in a desert.

'Do you remember the place, sir?' asked Demetrius, halting.

'Vaguely,' murmured Marcellus. 'I'm sure I couldn't have found it. Is it
clear in your memory, Demetrius?'

'Quite so. I came late. I could see the crosses from here, and the
crowd.'

'What was I doing when you arrived?' asked Marcellus.

'You and the other officers were casting dice.'

'For the robe?'

'Yes, sir.'

Neither spoke for a little while.

'I did not see the nailing, Demetrius,' said Marcellus, thickly. 'Paulus
pushed me away. I was glad enough to escape the sight. I walked to the other
side of the knoll. It has been a bitter memory, I can tell you.'

'Well, sir,' said Demetrius, 'here is the path. I shall wait for you at
the inn. I hope you will not be disappointed, but it seems unlikely that
Simon Peter would try to keep his appointment.'

'He will come, I think,' predicted Marcellus. 'Simon Peter is safer from
arrest to-day than he was yesterday. Both the Insula and the Temple have
tried to convince the public that the Christians have no legal or moral
sanction for their beliefs. Having captured their leader, with the
expectation of making a tragic example of him, they are now stunned by the
discovery that their victim has walked out of prison. Neither Julian nor
Herod will want to undertake an explanation of that event. I think they will
decide that the less said or done now, in the case of The Big Fisherman, the
better it will be for everybody concerned. I fully expect Simon Peter will
meet me here—unless, in all the confusion, he has forgotten about
it.'

* * * * *

Peter had not forgotten. Marcellus saw him coming, a long way off,
marching militantly with head up and a swinging stride that betokened a
confident mind. The man had leadership, reflected the admiring watcher.

As The Big Fisherman neared the grassy knoll, however, his steps slowed
and his shoulders slumped. He stopped and passed an unsteady hand over his
massive forehead. Marcellus rose and advanced to meet him as he mounted the
slight elevation with plodding feet. Peter extended his huge hand, but did
not speak. They sat down on the grass near the deep pits where the crosses
had stood, and for a long time they remained in silence.

At length, Peter roused from his painful meditation and glanced at
Marcellus with heavy eyes, which drifted back to the ground.

'I was not here that day,' rumbled the deep, throaty voice. 'I did not
stand by him in the hour of his anguish.' Peter drew a deep sigh.

Marcellus did not know what to say, or whether he was expected to say
anything. The big Galilean sat ruefully studying the palms of his hands with
a dejection so profound that any attempt to relieve it would have been an
impertinence. Now he regarded Marcellus with critical interest, as if noting
him for the first time.

'Your Greek slave told me you were interested in the story of Jesus,' he
said, soberly. 'And it has come to me that you were of friendly service,
yesterday, when our brave Stephen was taken away. Benyosef thought he heard
you profess the faith of a Christian. Is that true, Marcellus Gallio?'

'I am convinced, sir,' said Marcellus, 'that Jesus is divine. I believe
that he is alive, and of great power. But I have much to learn about
him.'

'You have already gone far with your faith, my friend!' said Peter,
warmly. 'As a Roman, your manner of living has been quite remote from the way
of life that Jesus taught. Doubtless you have done much evil, for which you
should repent if you would know the fullness of his grace. But I could not
ask you to repent until I had told you of the wrongs which I have done.
Whatever sins you may have committed, they cannot compare to the disloyalty
for which I have been forgiven. He was my dearest friend—and, on the
day that he needed me, I swore that I had never known him.'

Peter put his huge hands over his eyes and bowed his head. After a long
moment he looked up.

'Now,' he said, 'tell me how much you know about Jesus.'

Marcellus did not immediately reply, and when he did so, his words were
barely audible. He heard himself saying, as if someone else were
speaking:

'I crucified him.'

* * * * *

The sun was low when they rose to return to the city. In those two hours,
Marcellus had heard the stirring details of a story that had come to him
previously in fragments and on occasions when his mind was unprepared to
appreciate them.

They had found a strange kinship in their remorse, but Peter, fired by his
inspiring recollections of the Master-man, had declared it was the future
that must concern them now. He had daring plans for his own activities. He
was going to Caesarea, to Joppa—perhaps to Rome!

'I am going to tell the Emperor that Jesus, whom we thought dead, is
alive, and that he is here to establish a new kingdom.'

'It will take courage to do that, my young brother! The Emperor will not
like to hear that a new kingdom is coming. You may be punished for your
boldness.'

'Be that as it may,' said Marcellus, 'I shall have told him the
truth.'

'He will ask you how you know that Jesus lives. What will you say?'

'I shall tell him of the death of Stephanos, and the vision that he had. I
am convinced that he saw Jesus!'

'Emperor Tiberius will want better proof than that.'

Marcellus was silently thoughtful. It was true, as Peter had said, such
testimony would have very little weight with anyone disinclined to believe.
Tiberius would scoff at such evidence, as who would not? Senator Gallio would
say, 'You saw a dying man looking at Jesus. How do you know that is what he
saw? Is this your best ground of belief that your Galilean is alive? You say
he worked miracles; but you, personally, didn't see any.'

'Come,' said Peter, getting to his feet. 'Let us go back to the city.'

They strode along with very little to say, each immersed in his thoughts.
Presently they were in the thick of city traffic. Peter had said he was going
back to John Mark's house. Marcellus would return to the inn. Now they were
passing the Temple. The sun was setting and the marble steps, throughout the
day swarming with beggars, were almost deserted.

One pitiful cripple, his limbs twisted and shrunken, sat dejectedly on the
lowest step, waggling his basin and hoarsely croaking for alms. Peter slowed
to a stop. Marcellus had moved on, a little way, but drifted back when he
observed that Peter and the beggar were talking.

'How long have you been this way, friend?' Peter was saying.

'Since my birth, sir,' whined the beggar. 'For God's sake, an alms!'

'I have no money,' confessed Peter; then, impulsively, he went on, 'but
such as I have I give you!' Stretching out both hands to the bewildered,
cripple, he commanded, 'In the name of Jesus, stand up, and walk!' Grasping
his thin arms, he tugged the beggar to his feet—and he stood!
Amazed—and with pathetic little whimpers, half-laughing, half-crying,
he slipped his sandals along the pavement; short, uncertain, experimental
steps—but he was walking. Now he was shouting!

A crowd began to gather. Men of the neighbourhood who recognized the
beggar were pushing in to ask excited questions. Peter took Marcellus by the
arm and they moved on, walking for some distance in silence. At length
Marcellus found his voice, but it was shaky.

'Peter! How did you do that?'

'By the power of Jesus' spirit.'

'But the thing's impossible! The fellow was born crippled! He had never
taken a step in his life!'

'Well, he will walk now,' said Peter, solemnly.

'Tell me, Peter!' entreated Marcellus. 'Did you know you had this power?
Have you ever done anything like this before?'

'No, not like this,' said Peter. 'I am more and more conscious of his
presence. He dwells in me. This power—it is not mine, Marcellus. It is
his spirit.'

'Perhaps he will not appear again—except in men's hearts,' said
Marcellus.

'Yes!' declared Peter. 'He will dwell in men's hearts—and give them
the power of his spirit. But—that is not all! HE WILL COME AGAIN!'

It was common knowledge that Rome had the noisiest nights of
any city in the world, but one needed a quiet year abroad to appreciate this
fully.

Except for the two celebrated avenues intersecting at the Forum—the
Via Sacra and the Via Novo—which were grandly laid with smooth blocks
of Numidian marble, all the principal thoroughfares were paved with
cobblestones ranging in size from plums to pomegranates.

To relieve the congestion in these cramped, crooked streets and their
still narrower tributaries, an ordinance (a century old) prohibited the
movement of market-carts, delivery waggons, or any other vehicular traffic
from sunrise to sunset, except imperial equipages and officially sanctioned
parades on festal occasions.

Throughout the daylight hours, the business streets were gorged with
jostling crowds on foot, into which the more privileged ruthlessly rode their
horses or were borne on litters and portable chairs; but when twilight fell,
the harsh rasp and clatter of heavy iron wheels grinding the cobblestones set
up a nerve-racking cacophony, accompanied by the agonized squawk of dry
axles, the cracking of whips, and the shrill quarrels of contenders for the
right of way; nor did this maddening racket cease until another day had
dawned. This was every night, the whole year round.

But the time to see and hear Rome at her utmost was during the full of a
summer moon when much building construction was in progress, and everybody
who had anything to haul took advantage of the light. Unable to sleep,
thousands turned out in the middle of the hideous night to add their jostling
and clamour to the other jams and confusions. Shopkeepers opened up to serve
the meandering insomniacs with sweets and beverages. Hawkers barked their
catchpenny wares; minstrels twanged their lyres and banged their drums;
bulging camel-trains doggedly plodded through the protesting throng,
trampling toes and tearing tunics; great waggons loaded with lumber and hewn
stone ploughed up the multitude, pitching the furrows against the walls and
into open doorways. All nights in Rome were dreadful, and the more beautiful
nights were dangerous.

Long before their galley from Ostia had rounded the bend that brought the
city into full view on that bright June midnight of their home-coming,
Marcellus heard the infernal din as he had never heard it before; heard it as
no one could hear it without the preparation of a month's sailing on a placid
summer sea.

The noise had a new significance. It symbolized the confounded outcry of a
competitive world that had always done everything the hard way, the mean way,
and had very little to show for its sweat and passion. It knew no peace, had
never known peace, and apparently didn't want any peace.

Expertly the galley slipped into its snug berth, to be met by a swarm of
yelling porters. Demetrius, one of the first passengers over the rail,
returned in a moment with a half-dozen swarthy Thracians who made off with
their abundant luggage. Engaging another port-waggon for themselves, the
travellers were soon swallowed up in a bedlam of tangled traffic through
which they crept along until Marcellus, weary of the delay, suggested that
they should pay off the driver and continue on foot.

He had forgotten how insufferably rude and cruel the public could be.
Massed into a solid pack, it had no intelligence. It had no capacity to
understand how, if everyone calmly took his turn, some progress might be
made. Even the wild animals around a water-hole in the jungle had more sense
than this surly, selfish, shoving mob.

Marcellus's own words, spoken with such bland assurance to the cynical
Paulus, flashed across his mind and mocked him. The kingdom of good will, he
had declared, would not come into being at the top of society. It would not
be handed down from a throne. It would begin with the common people. Well,
here were your common people! Climb up on a cart, Marcellus, and tell the
common people about good will. Admonish them to love one another, aid one
another, defer to one another; and so fulfil the law of Christ. But look out!
or they will pelt you with filth from the gutters, for the common people are
in no mood to be trifled with.

* * * * *

The reunion of the Gallio family, an hour later, was one of the happiest
experiences of their lives. When Marcellus had left home a year ago, shaky,
emaciated, and mentally upset, the three who remained mourned for him almost
as if he were dead. True, there had been occasional brief letters assuring
them that he was well, but there was a conspicuous absence of details
concerning his experiences and only vague intimations of a desire to come
home. Between the lines they read, with forebodings, that Marcellus was still
in a state of mental upheaval. He had seemed very far away, not only in miles
but in mind. The last letter they had received from him, a month ago, had
said, in closing, 'I am trailing an elusive mystery for the Emperor.
Mysteries are his recreation. This one may turn out to be something more
serious than a mere pastime.' The Senator had sighed and shaken his head as
he slowly rolled up the scroll.

But now Marcellus had come back as physically fit as a gladiator, mentally
alert, free of his despondency, in possession of his natural zest and
enthusiasm.

And something else had been added, something not easy to define, a curious
radiance of personality. There was a new strength in Marcellus, a contagious
energy that vitalized the house. It was in his voice, in his eyes, in his
hands. His family did not at first ask him what this new thing was, nor did
they let him know that it was noticeable; neither did they discuss it
immediately with one another. But Marcellus had acquired something that gave
him distinction.

The Senator had been working late in his library. He had finished his
task, had put away his writing materials, and had risen from his desk-chair,
when he heard confident footsteps.

Leaving Demetrius in the driveway to await the arrival of their luggage,
Marcellus—joyfully recognized by the two old slaves on guard at the
front door—had walked swiftly through to the spacious atrium. His
father's door was partly open. Bursting in on him unceremoniously, he threw
his arms around him and hugged him breathless. Although the Senator was tall
and remarkably virile for his years, the Tribune's overwhelming vitality
completely engulfed him.

Marcellus pressed his cheek against his father's and patted him on the
back.

'Yes, sir!' he exclaimed. 'More alive than ever! And you, sir, grow more
handsome every day! How proud I am to be your son!'

Lucia, in her room, suddenly stirred in her sleep, sat up wide-awake,
listened, tossed aside the silk covers, listened again with an open mouth and
a pounding heart.

'Oh!' she called. 'Tertia! My robe! Tertia! Wake up! Hurry! My sandals!
Marcellus is here!' Racing down to the library, she threw herself into her
brother's arms, and when he had lifted her off her feet and kissed her, she
cried, 'Dear Marcellus—you are well!'

'And you, my sweet, are beautiful! You have grown up, haven't you?' He
lightly touched her high coronet of glossy black hair with caressing fingers.
'Lovely!'

The Senator put his arms around both of them, to their happy surprise, for
it was not his custom to be demonstrative with his affection.

'Come,' he said gently. 'Let us go to your mother.'

'It is very late,' said Marcellus. 'Should we waken her?'

'Of course!' insisted Lucia.

They crowded through the doorway, arm in arm. In the dimly lit atrium, a
little group of the older servants had assembled, tousled and sleepy, their
anxious eyes wondering what to expect of the son and heir who, on his last
visit home, had been in such a distressing state of mind.

'Ho! Marcipor!' shouted Marcellus, grasping the outstretched hand. 'Hi!
Decimus!' It wasn't often that the stiff and taciturn butler unbent, but he
beamed with smiles as he thrust out his hand. 'How are you, Tertia!' called
Marcellus to the tall, graceful girl descending the stairs. They all drew in
closer. Old Servius was patted on the shoulder, and the wrinkled, toothless
mouth chopped tremulously while the tears ran unchecked.

'Welcome! Welcome!' the old man shrilled. 'The gods bless you, sir!'

'Ah, Lentius!' hailed Marcellus. 'How are my horses?' And when Lentius had
made bold to reply that Ishtar had a filly, three months old—which made
them all laugh merrily as if this were a good joke on
somebody—Marcellus sent them into another gale of laughter by
demanding, 'Bring in the colt, Lentius! I must see her at once!'

There were more than a score of slaves gathered in the atrium now, all of
them full of happy excitement. There had never been such an utter collapse of
discipline in the Gallio household. Long-time servants, accustomed to moving
about soberly and on tiptoe, heard themselves laughing
hilariously—laughing here in the atrium! laughing in the presence of
the Senator! And the Senator was smiling too!

Marcellus was brightening their eyes with his ready recognition, calling
most of them by name. A pair of pretty Macedonian twins arrived, hand in
hand, dressed exactly alike; practically indistinguishable. He remembered
having had a glimpse of them, two years ago, but had forgotten their names.
He looked their way, and so did everyone else, to their considerable
embarrassment.

'Are you girls sisters?' he inquired.

This was by far the merriest thing that anyone had said, and the atrium
resounded with full-throated appreciation.

'Decimus!' shouted the Senator, and the laughter ceased. 'You will serve
supper! In an hour! In the banquet-room! With the gold service! Marcipor! let
all the lamps be lighted! Throughout the villa! And the gardens!'

Marcellus brushed through the scattering crowd and bounded up the stairs.
Cornelia met him in the corridor, outside her door, and he gathered her
hungrily into his arms. They had no adequate words for each other; just stood
there, clinging together, Cornelia smoothing his close-cropped hair with her
soft palm and sobbing like a child, while the Senator, with misty eyes,
waited a little way apart, fumbling with the silk tassels on his broad
sash.

Her intuition suggesting that Marcellus and their emotional mother might
need a quiet moment alone together, Lucia had tarried at the foot of the
staircase for a word with Decimus about the supper. All the other servants
had scurried away to their duties, their very sandal-straps confiding in
excited whispers that this was a happy night and that it was good to be
there.

'Not too much food, Decimus,' Lucia was saying. 'Some fresh fruit and cold
meats and wine—and a nut-cake if there is one. But don't cook anything.
It is late, and the Senator will be tired and sleepy before you have time to
prepare an elaborate dinner. Serve it in the big dining-room, as he said, and
use the gold plate. And tell Rhesus to cut an armful of roses—red ones.
And let the twins serve my brother. And—'

With suddenly widened eyes, she sighted Demetrius—tall, tanned,
serious, and handsome—entering the atrium. Dismissing the butler with a
brief nod, Lucia held her arm high and waved a welcome, her flowing sleeve
baring a shapely elbow. Decimus, keenly observant, scowled his displeasure
and stalked stiffly away.

Advancing with long strides, Demetrius came to a military halt before her,
bowed deferentially, and was slowly bringing up his spear-shaft to his
forehead in the conventional salute when Lucia stepped forward impulsively,
laying both hands on his bronzed arms.

'All thanks, good Demetrius,' she said, softly. 'You have brought
Marcellus home, well and strong as ever. Better than ever!'

'No thanks are due me for that,' he rejoined. 'The Tribune needed no one
to bring him home. He is fully master of himself now.' Demetrius raised his
eyes and regarded her with frank admiration. 'May I tell the Tribune's sister
how very—how very well she is looking?'

'Why not, if you think so?' Lucia, toying with her amber beads, gave him a
smile that was meant to be non-committal. 'There is no need to ask how you
are, Demetrius. Have you and the Tribune had some exciting experiences?' Her
eyes were wincingly exploring a long, new scar on his upper arm. He glanced
down at it with a droll grin. 'How did you get that awful cut?' she asked,
squeamishly.

'I met a Syrian,' said Demetrius. 'They are not a very polite people.'

'I hope you taught him some of the gentle manners of the Greeks,' drawled
Lucia. 'Tell me—did you kill him?'

'You can't kill a Syrian,' said Demetrius, lightly. 'They die only of old
age.'

Lucia's little shrug said they had had enough of this banter and her face
slowly sobered to a thoughtful frown.

'What has happened to my brother?' she asked. 'He seems in such
extraordinarily high spirits.'

'He may want to tell you—if you give him time.'

'You're different, too, Demetrius.'

'For the better, I hope,' he parried.

'Something has expanded you both,' declared Lucia. 'What is it? Has
Marcellus been elevated to a more responsible command?'

Demetrius nodded enthusiastically.

'Will his new assignment take him into danger?' she asked, suddenly
apprehensive.

'Oh, yes, indeed!' he answered, proudly.

'He doesn't appear to be worrying much about it. I never saw him so happy.
He has already turned the whole villa upside-down with his gaiety.'

'I know. I heard them.' Demetrius grinned.

'I hope it won't spoil them,' she said, with dignity. 'They aren't used to
taking such liberties; though perhaps it will not hurt—to have it
happen—this once.'

'I'm afraid I do,' he sighed. 'Had you forgotten that I too am a
slave?'

'No.' She gave a little toss of her head. 'But I think YOU have.'

'I did not mean to be impudent,' he said, contritely. 'But what we are
talking about is very serious, you know; discipline, slavery, mastery, human
relations—and who has a right to tell others when they may be
happy.'

Lucia searched his face with a frown.

'Well, I hope my brother's genial attitude towards our servants is not
going to make us lose our control of this house!' she snapped,
indignantly.

'It need not,' said Demetrius. 'He believes in a little different kind of
control, that is all. It is much more effective, I think, than controlling by
sharp commands. More pleasant for everybody, and, besides, you get better
service.'

Marcellus was calling to her from the head of the stairs.

'I am sorry I spoke impatiently, Demetrius,' she said, as she moved away.
'We are so glad you are home again.'

He met her level eyes and they smiled. He raised his spear-shaft to
salute. She pursed her lips, shook her head, and made a negligent
gesture.

'Never mind the salute,' she said, 'for once.'

Marcipor, who had been lingering impatiently in the alcove, waiting for
this conversation to end, came forward as Lucia disappeared up the stairway.
He fell into step with Demetrius and they strolled out through the peristyle
into the moonlight.

'It is amazing—how he has recovered!' said Marcipor. 'What happened
to him?'

'I shall tell you fully when there is an opportunity; later to-night, if
possible. Marcellus has become an ardent believer. He toured through
Galilee—'

'And you?' asked Marcipor. 'Were you not with him?'

'Only part of the time. I spent many weeks in Jerusalem. I have much to
tell you about that. Marcipor, the Galilean is alive!'

'Yes, we have heard that.'

'"We"? and who are "we"?' Demetrius took hold of Marcipor's arm and drew
him to a sudden halt.

'It was being whispered about in the markets. Decimus, who is forever
deriding the Greeks, was pleased to inform me that certain superstitious
traders from Antioch had brought the report of a Jewish carpenter who had
risen from the dead. Remembering what you had told me about this man, I was
devoured with curiosity to hear more of it.'

'And you found the men from Antioch?' encouraged Demetrius.

'The next day. They were quite free to talk, and their story sounded
convincing. They had had it from an eye-witness of many astounding
miracles—one Philip. Seeking to confirm it, several of them went to
Jerusalem, where they talked with other men who had seen this Jesus after his
death—men whose word they trusted. All that—added to what you had
reported—gave me cause to believe.'

'So you are a Christian!' Demetrius's eyes shone. 'You must tell the
Tribune. He will be delighted!'

Marcipor's face grew suddenly grave.

'Not yet, Demetrius. My course is not clear. Decimus made it his business
to inform the Senator of this new movement, describing it as a revolution
against lawful authority.'

'Has the Senator done anything about it?'

'Not that I know of, but is it not natural that his feeling toward the
Christians should be far from complacent? He associates all this with his
son's misfortunes. Now, if Marcellus is told that we have a large body of
believers here in Rome, he might impetuously throw himself into it. That
would be dangerous. The Christians are keeping under cover. Already the
patrols are beginning to make inquiries about their secret meetings. We must
not cause a breach between Marcellus and his father.'

'Very well, Marcipor,' agreed Demetrius. 'We will not tell the Tribune,
but he will find it out; you may be sure of that. And as for estrangement, it
is inevitable. Marcellus will not give up his belief, and it is quite
unlikely that the Senator could be persuaded of its truth. Old men do not
readily change their opinions. However, this new cause cannot wait, Marcipor,
until all the opinionated old men have approved of it. This story of Jesus is
our only hope that freedom and justice may come. And if it is to come, at
all, it must begin now!'

'I believe that,' said Marcipor, 'but still, I shouldn't like to see
Marcellus offend his father. The Senator is not going to live long.'

'There was just such a case reported to Jesus,' said Demetrius. 'I had
this from a Galilean who heard the conversation. A young man, very much
impressed that it was his duty to come out openly for this new way of life,
said to Jesus, "My father is an old man, sir, with old views. This new
religion is an offence to him. Let me first bury my father, and then I shall
come—and follow."'

'That sounds reasonable,' put in Marcipor, who was sixty-seven.

'Jesus didn't think so,' went on Demetrius. 'It was high time for a
drastic change in men's belief and behaviour. The new message couldn't wait
for the departure of old men with old views. Indeed, these old men were
already dead. Let them be buried by other dead ones.'

'Did he say that?' queried Marcipor.

'Well, something like that.'

'Sounds rather rough to me, coming from so gentle a person.'

Demetrius slipped his hand affectionately through the older Corinthian's
arm.

'Marcipor, let us not make the mistake of thinking that, because this
message of Jesus concerns peace and good will, it is a soft and timid thing
that will wait on every man's convenience, and scurry off the road, to hide
in the bushes, until all other things go by! The people who carry this torch
are going to get into plenty of trouble. They are already being whipped and
imprisoned! Many have been slain!'

'I know, I know,' murmured Marcipor. 'One of the traders from Antioch told
me of seeing a young Greek stoned to death by a mob in Jerusalem. Stephanos
was his name. Did you, by any chance, know him?'

'Stephanos,' said Demetrius, sadly, 'was my closest friend.'

* * * * *

Marcellus had not finished his breakfast when Marcipor came in to say that
Senator Gallio was in his library and would be pleased to have a talk with
the Tribune at his early convenience.

'You may tell the Senator that I shall be down in a few minutes,' said
Marcellus.

He would have preferred to postpone, for a few days, this serious
interview with his father. It would be very difficult for the Senator to
listen to his strange story with patience or respect. For some moments
Marcellus sat staring out of the open window, while he absently peeled an
orange that he didn't intend to eat, and tried to decide how best to present
the case of Jesus the Galilean; for, in this instance, he would be more than
an advocate. Marcellus would be on trial, too.

Marcus Lucan Gallio was not a contentious man. His renown as a debater in
the Senate had been earned by diplomacy; by his knowing when and how much to
concede, where and whom to appease, and the fine art of conciliation. He
never doggedly pursued an argument for vanity's sake. But he was proud of his
mental morality.

If, for example, he became firmly convinced that at all times and
everywhere water seeks a level, there would be no use in coming to him with
the tale that on a certain day, in a certain country, at the behest of a
certain man, water was observed to run uphill. He had no time for reports of
events which disregarded natural laws. As for 'miracles,' the very word was
offensive. He had no tolerance for such stories and not much more tolerance
for persons who believed in them. And because, in his opinion, all religions
were built on faith in supernatural beings and supernatural doings, the
Senator was not only contemptuous of religion, but admitted a candid distaste
for religious people. Anybody who went in for such beliefs was either
ignorant or unscrupulous. If a man, who had any sense at all, became a
religious propagandist, he needed watching; for, obviously, he meant to take
advantage of the feeble-minded, who would trust him because of his piety.
Some people, according to Senator Gallio, seemed to think that a pious man
was inevitably honest, whereas the facts would show that piety and integrity
were categorically irrelevant. It was quite proper for old Servius to
importune his gods. One could even forgive old Tiberius for his consuming
interest in religion, seeing that he was half crazy. But there was no excuse
for such nonsense in a healthy, educated man.

Marcellus had been treated with deep sympathy when he had come home a year
ago. He had suffered a great shock and his mind was temporarily unbalanced.
He couldn't have said anything too preposterous for his father's patience.
But now he was sound in body and mind. He would tell the Senator this morning
an amazing story of a man who had healed all manner of diseases; a man who,
having been put to death on a cross, rose from his grave to be seen of many
witnesses. And this would undoubtedly make the Senator very angry—and
disgusted. 'Bah!' he would shout. 'Nonsense!'

* * * * *

This forecast of his father's probable attitude had been appallingly
accurate. It turned out to be a very unhappy interview. From almost the first
moment, Marcellus sensed strong opposition. He had decided to begin his
narrative with Jesus' unjust trials and crucifixion, hoping thus to enlist
the Senator's sympathy for the persecuted Galilean, but he was not permitted
to build up his case from that point.

'I have heard all that, my son,' said Gallio, crisply. 'You need not
review it. Tell me of the journey you made into the country where this man
lived.'

So, Marcellus had told of his tour with Justus; of little Jonathan, whose
crippled foot had been made strong; of Miriam, who had been given a voice; of
Lydia, who had found healing by a touch of his robe; of old Nathanael
Bartholomew, and the storm at sea—while his father gazed steadily at
him from under shaggy, frowning brows, offering no comments and asking no
questions.

At length he had arrived at the phase of the story where he must talk of
Jesus' return to life. With dramatic earnestness he repeated everything that
they had told him of these reappearances, while the lines about the Senator's
mouth deepened into a scowl.

'It all sounds incredible, sir,' he conceded, 'but I am convinced that it
is true.' For a moment, he debated the advisability of telling his father
about the miracle he had seen with his own eyes—Peter's healing of the
cripple. But no, that would be too much. His father would tell him he had
been imposed upon by these miracle stories reported to him by other men. But
there would be nothing left for the Senator to say except 'You lie!' if he
told him that he himself had seen one of these wonders wrought.

'On the testimony of a few superstitious fishermen!' growled Gallio,
derisively.

'It was not easy for me to accept, sir,' admitted Marcellus, 'and I am not
trying to persuade you of it. You asked me to tell you what I had learned
about Jesus, and I have told you truly. It is my belief that this Galilean is
still alive. I think he is an eternal person, a divine person with powers
that no king or emperor has ever possessed, and I further believe that he
will eventually rule the world!'

Gallio chuckled bitterly.

'Had you thought of telling Tiberius that this Jesus intends to rule the
world?'

'I may not need to say that to Tiberius. I shall tell him that Jesus, who
was put to death, is alive again. The Emperor can draw his own
conclusions.'

'You had better be careful what you say to that crazy old man', warned
Gallio. 'He is insane enough to believe you, and this will not be pleasant
news. Don't you know he is quite capable of having you punished for bringing
him a tale like that?'

'He can do no more than kill me,' said Marcellus, quietly.

'Perhaps not,' retorted Gallio; 'but even so light a punishment as
death—for an aspiring young man—might be quite an
inconvenience.'

Marcellus humoured his father's grim jest with a smile.

'In sober truth, sir, I do not fear death. There is a life to come.'

'Well, that is an ancient hope, my son,' conceded Gallio, with a vague
gesture. 'Men have been scrawling that on their tombs for three thousand
years. The only trouble with that dream is that it lacks proof. Nobody has
ever signalled us from out there. Nobody has ever come back to report.'

'Jesus did!' declared Marcellus.

Gallio sighed deeply and shook his head. After a moody silence, he pushed
back his chair and walked slowly around the big desk, as Marcellus rose to
meet his approach.

'My son,' he said, entreatingly, laying his hands on the broad shoulders,
'go to the Emperor and tell him what you have learned of this Galilean
prophet. Quote Jesus' words of wisdom. They are sensible and should do
Tiberius much good if he would heed them. Tell him, if you must, about the
feats of magic. The old man will believe them, and the more improbable they
are the better they—and you—will please him. That, in my opinion,
should be sufficient.'

'Why should you?' demanded Gallio. 'Take a common-sense view of your
predicament. Through no fault of yours, you have had an unusual experience,
and are now obliged to report on it to the Emperor. He has been mad for a
dozen years or more and everybody in Rome knows it. He has surrounded himself
with scores of scatter-brained philosophers, astrologers, soothsayers, and
diviners of oracles. Some of them are downright impostors and the rest of
them are mentally unhinged. If you tell Tiberius what you have told me, you
will be just one more monkey added to his menagerie.'

It was strong medicine, but Marcellus grinned; and his father, feeling
that his argument was gaining ground, went on, pleadingly:

'You have a bright future before you, my son, if you will it so; but not
if you pursue this course. I wonder if you realize what a tragedy maybe in
the making for you—and for all of us! It will be a bitter experience
for your mother, and your sister, and your father, to know that our friends
are telling one another you have lost your mind; that you are one of the
Emperor's wise fools. And what will Diana say?' he continued, earnestly.
'That beautiful creature is in love with you! Don't you care?'

'I do care, sir!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'And I realize that she may be
sadly disappointed in me, but I have no alternative. I have put my hand to
this plough—and I am not turning back!'

Gallio retreated a step and lounged against his desk, with a sly
smile.

'Wait until you see her before you decide to give her up.'

'I am indeed anxious to see her, sir.'

'Will you try to meet her, down there, before you talk to Tiberius?'

'If possible, yes, sir.'

'You have made your arrangements for the voyage?'

'Yes, sir. Demetrius has seen to it. We leave this evening. Galley to
Ostia. To Capri on the Cleo.'

'Very good,' approved Gallio, much encouraged. He slapped Marcellus on the
back. 'Let us take a walk in the gardens. And you haven't been to the stables
yet.'

'A moment, please, sir, before we go.' Marcellus's face was serious. 'I
know you have a feeling that everything is settled now, according to your
wish, and I would be happy to follow your counsel if I were free to do
so.'

'Free?' Gallio stared into his son's eyes. 'What do you mean?'

'I feel obliged, sir, to tell the Emperor of Jesus' return to life.'

'Well, well, then,' consented Gallio, brusquely, 'if you must talk about
that, let it be as a local rumour among the country people. You don't have to
tell Tiberius that YOU believe it! If you want to say that a few fishermen
thought they saw him, that should discharge your obligation. You have no
personal knowledge of it. YOU didn't see him!'

'But I saw a man who did see him, sir!' declared Marcellus. 'I SAW THIS
MAN LOOKING AT HIM!'

'And that constitutes proof, in your opinion?' scoffed Gallio.

'In this instance, yes, sir! I saw a Greek stoned for his Christian
belief. He was a brave man, ready to risk his life for his faith. I knew him,
and trusted him. When everyone thought him dead, he raised himself up,
smiled, and shouted, "I SEE HIM!" And—I KNOW THAT HE SAW HIM!'

'But you don't have to tell that to Tiberius!' said Gallio, testily.

'Yes, sir! Having heard and seen that, I should be a coward if I did not
testify to it! For I, too, am a Christian, sir! I cannot do otherwise!'

Gallio made no reply. With bent head, he turned away slowly and left the
room, without a backward glance.

Lamenting his father's disappointment, Marcellus sauntered out to the
pergola, feeling sure that Lucia would be waiting for him. She saw him coming
and ran to meet him. Linking their arms, she tugged him along gaily toward
their favourite rendezvous.

'What's the matter?' she insisted, shaking his arm. 'Had a row with the
Senator?'

'I hurt his feelings,' muttered Marcellus.

'I hope you weren't talking to him about that awful business up there in
Jerusalem that made you sick!'

'No, dear; but I was telling him about that man—and I would be glad
to tell you, too.'

'Thanks, my little brother!' chaffed Lucia. 'I don't want to hear a word
of it! High time you forgot all about it!... Here, Bambo!... Make a fuss over
him, Marcellus. He hardly knows you.' Her lips pouted. 'Neither do I,' she
murmured. 'Aren't you ever going to be happy any more? Last night we all
thought you were well again. I was so glad, I lay awake for hours, hugging
myself for joy! Now you're glum and moody.' Big tears stood in her eyes.
'Please, Marcellus!'

'Sorry, sister.' He put his arm around her. 'Let us go and look at the
roses.... Here, Bambo!'

Bambo strolled up and consented to have his head patted.

* * * * *

The Emperor had not been well for many weeks. Early in April, while rashly
demonstrating how tough he was, the old man had ambled down to the
uncompleted villa on the easternmost end of the mall in a drenching rain and
had taken a severe cold, the effects of which had depleted his not too
abundant vitality.

In normal circumstances Tiberius, customarily careful of his health, would
have taken no such risk; or, having taken it, would have gone at once to bed,
fuming and snorting, to be packed in hot fomentations and doctored with
everything that the court physicians could devise.

But on this occasion the Emperor, having renewed his youth—or at
least having attained his second childhood—had sat about with Diana in
the dampness of the new villa, wet to the skin, after which he had sauntered
back to the Jovis pretending to have enjoyed the rain and refusing to permit
anyone to aid him, though it was clear enough that he was having a bad chill:
he had sneezed violently in the Chamberlain's face while hoarsely protesting
that he was sound as a nut.

That the young daughter of Gallus had been innocently but unmistakably
responsible for this dangerous imprudence—and many another hazardous
folly on the part of the ageing Emperor—was now the unanimous opinion
of the household staff.

The beauteous Diana was becoming a problem. For the first few weeks after
her arrival, more than a year ago, the entire population of Capri—with
the exception of the Empress Julia, whose Jealousy of her was deep and
desperate—had rejoiced in the girl's invigorating influence on
Tiberius. His infatuation for Diana had done wonders for him. Boyishly eager
to please her, he was living more temperately, not only in what he ate and
drank, but in what he said and did. Not often now was the Emperor noticeably
intoxicated. His notorious tantrums were staged less frequently and with less
violence. When annoyed, he still threw things at his ministers, but it had
been a long time since he had barked at or bitten anyone. And whereas he had
frequently humiliated them all by slogging about the grounds looking like the
veriest ragamuffin, now he insisted on being shaved almost every morning and
was keenly interested in his costumes.

This had met the enthusiastic approval of everybody whose tenure of office
was in any way related to his own—and that included almost everyone on
Capri, ministers, minstrels, physicians, dancers, gardeners, vintners,
tailors, astrologers, historians, poets, cooks, guards, carpenters,
stonemasons, sculptors, priests, and at least three hundred servants, bond
and free. The longer they could keep the Emperor alive, the better for their
own careers; and the more contented he was, the less arduous their task of
caring for him.

It was quite natural, therefore, that Diana should be popular. The poets
in residence composed extravagant odes appropriately extolling her beauty,
and—with somewhat less warrant—her sweet and gentle disposition,
for she was of uncertain temper and not at all reticent about expressing her
feelings when displeased.

But, as time went on, it began to be whispered about that the infirm
Emperor, in trying to show off for Diana, was wearing himself out. He was at
her nimble heels from sunrise to sunset, in all weathers, fiercely gouging
the gravelled paths with his cane as they toured the island, and wheezing up
and down stairs in her lavish new villa, which seemed almost as far from
completion as it had been six months previously, though a hundred skilled
workmen had been hard at it every day. Nothing was ever quite fine enough.
Mantels had to be taken down and rebuilt, again and again. Mosaic floors and
walls were ripped out and reconstructed. One day the old man had testily
remarked that he didn't believe the villa would ever be completed, an
impromptu forecast which, albeit spoken lightly, turned out to be a sound
prediction.

For some time considerable sympathy was felt for Diana. Though no one knew
certainly—for she was far too wise to confide fully in anyone connected
with this university of gossip, intrigue, and treachery—it was
generally believed that the brilliant and beautiful girl was being detained
at Capri against her personal wishes. This seemed to be confirmed by the fact
that on the occasions of her mother's visits, every few weeks, Diana would
weep piteously when the time came for Paula's departure. There might be
certain advantages in being the sole object of the Emperor's devotion; but,
considered as a permanent occupation, it left a good deal to be desired.

A legend had gradually taken form and size concerning Diana's prospects.
The Chamberlain, in his cups, had confided to the Captain of the Guard that
the comely daughter of Legate Gallus was in love with the son of Senator
Gallio, a probably hopeless attachment, seeing that the young Tribune was
sick in the head and had been spirited out of the country. This information
was soon common knowledge.

No one was more interested in Diana's aspirations than old Julia, who
contrived to inspect every letter she sent and received. And it was believed
that Julia relayed copies of all such correspondence to Gaius; for, on each
occasion of having spied upon Diana's letters, she had dispatched a scroll to
the Prince by special messenger.

During the winter, Gaius had not visited Capri, but, advised of the
Emperor's indisposition, he had come in latter April, attended by a foppish
retinue, and had spent a week, pretending to be much concerned over the old
man's ill-health, but fully enjoying the nightly banquets which Tiberius had
ordered.

On these occasions the Emperor—barely able to hold his weary head
up—drowsed and roused and grinned like a skull and drowsed again, a
ludicrous caricature of imperial power. On his right, but paying no attention
to him, reclined old Julia, wigged, painted, ablaze with jewels and
shockingly cadaverous, smirking and fawning over Gaius who lounged beside
her.

None of the fifty dissolute sycophants who sprawled about the overloaded
tables dared risk exchanging a wink or a smile; but it was an amusing
pantomime, with the Emperor half-asleep and the Empress disgustingly pawing
at the gold-embroidered sleeve of the Prince, while he, disdainfully
indifferent to her caresses, leaned far forward to make amorous grimaces at
Diana, on the other side of Tiberius, stripping her with his experienced,
froglike eyes, while she regarded him with the cool detachment of one reading
an epitaph on an ancient monument.

This had been privately enjoyed by almost everybody but Celia, the
beautiful but feather-headed wife of Quintus and niece of Sejanus, long-time
friend and adviser of Tiberius. Celia was beside herself with an anxiety she
could not disguise. She would have been ready to kill Diana had the girl
shown Gaius the slightest encouragement, but she was also much annoyed over
Diana's frosty disinterest in the Prince's attentions. Who, indeed, did this
young Gallus think she was—to be so haughty? She had better mend her
manners!

The crazy old man she was leading about—like a dog on a leash—
would be dying one of these fine days—and then where would she be?

It had been a depressing week for Celia. Ever since Quintus had been sent
abroad on some state mission of high importance, she had been the centre of
interest at the Prince's social functions, serving as hostess and enjoying
his candid and clumsy preferment. At first it had been believed that Gaius
was showing her special favours to ingratiate himself with old Sejanus, who
held a strong hand on the imperial purse-strings. But as time went on, and
the Prince's visits at Celia's villa were of daily occurrence, this flattery
had gone to her head and she had made the mistake of snubbing many friends
who, though they had endured her snobberies for diplomacy's sake, were
carefully preparing to avenge themselves when an opportune moment arrived. It
had been Celia's hope that the Prince would find further business for her
husband in foreign parts, but now it had been announced that Quintus was
returning presently. As if that were not dismaying enough, Gaius was giving
his full attention to Diana.

On the last day of this visit to the Emperor, Celia had arranged what she
thought was a private moment with the Prince (though there were few
conversations on Capri which the whole island didn't know by nightfall) and
tearfully took him to task for his recent indifference.

'That braying ass?' retorted Gaius. 'We trust him with an ambassadorial
errand, and he gets himself slapped all over the campus of a Greek inn by an
unarmed slave!'

'I don't believe it!' shrilled Celia. 'It's a story someone invented to
discredit him! I thought you were Quintus's friend.'

'Bah! Quintus's only friend is his mirror! Had I cared for your husband,
would I have made a cuckold of him?'

Celia had wept hysterically.

'You liked me well enough,' she cried, 'until you came here and noticed
the charms of this Gallus girl! And it's plain to see she despises you! What
an impudent creature she is!'

'Mind you don't plan to do her some injury!' growled Gaius, clutching her
arm roughly. 'You would better forget all about her now, and be contented
with your husband when he comes.' He chuckled infuriatingly. 'You and Quintus
are admirably suited to each other.'

'You can't treat me like that!' she shouted, reckless with rage. 'Where
will you stand with Sejanus when I tell him you have treated me like an
ordinary trollop?'

Gaius shrugged.

'Where will YOU stand—when you tell him that?' he sneered.

Whereupon Celia had sought comfort in a call on the Empress, suddenly
remembering a social duty which most of the rest forgot in the confusion of
departure.

Julia had been surprisingly effusive; and Celia, red-eyed and outraged,
was a ready victim to the Empress's sympathetic queries.

'Poor Gaius!' sighed old Julia. 'So impressionable! So lonesome! And so
beset with cares! You must make allowances for him, my dear. And he really is
in love, I think, with the daughter of Gallus. It would not be a bad
alliance. Gallus is a great favourite with the army, at home and abroad.
Indeed—Gallus IS the army! And if my son is to succeed to the throne,
he needs the good will of our legions. Furthermore, as you have seen for
yourself, the Emperor is so foolishly fond of Diana that her marriage with
Gaius would practically insure my son's future.'

'But Diana hates him!' cried Celia. 'Anyone can see that!'

'Well, that is because she thinks she is in love with the half-crazy son
of Gallio.' Julia's thin lips puckered in an omniscient smile. 'She will get
over that. Perhaps, if you would like to square accounts with the luscious
Diana, you might give yourself no bother to deny the reports that Marcellus
is insane.' And with that, the Empress had kissed Celia and waved her
out.

Wiping her lips vigorously, Celia returned to the Villa Jovis where the
party was assembling for conveyance down the mountain to the imperial barge.
She was still hopeful that Gaius, on the return trip, would repent of his
discourtesies and restore her to his favour.

'Where is the Prince?' she inquired, with forced brightness, of her cousin
Lavilla Sejanus, as the slave-borne chairs were being filled.

'He isn't going back to the city with us,' Lavilla had had malicious
pleasure in replying. 'I daresay he wants to have a quiet visit with
Diana.'

'Well, he can have her!' retorted Celia, hotly.

'Don't be too sure of that!' shrilled Minia, Lavilla's younger sister, who
was thought to have been wholly occupied with the conversation she was having
with Olivia Varus, in the chair beside her.

'Diana is waiting for Marcellus Gallio to come back,' put in Olivia.

'Much good that will do her,' sniffed Celia. 'Marcellus has lost his mind.
That's why they sent him away.'

'Nonsense!' scoffed Lavilla. 'The Emperor sent him away to make some sort
of investigation—in Athens, or somewhere. Think he would have sent a
crazy man?'